How Soon Is Now?
by thischarmingcat
Summary: Brittana AU. Santana Lopez is a lot of things, but the most important one is that she's falling, falling, falling.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Hi there. This is, kind of, my first fic. Not the first I write, but the first I publish here. The idea's been bugging me for a while now—I just had to get it out of my system and see where it takes me. It's probably not what you want to read. Oops.

The title's a song by The Smiths, _How soon is now?_, from their album _Hatful of Hollow_.

**Rating: **M for swearing and future sexy times.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, I don't own Glee, although I'd very much like to own Brittany Pierce. But that's totally not the point. Cof, cof.

All mistakes are my own.

* * *

><p><strong>I<strong>

Santana Lopez is a lot of things.

She is, for starters, a young, smoking hot piece of ass.

Also, she's damn successful.

Like, really, if she were Maribel Lopez, her _beloved_ mother, who happily kicked her out of their house at the tender age of 17, she would be pretty pissed at herself.

Come to think of it, if she were Maribel Lopez, she would probably be emotionally numb to everything because of the heavy drinking. Oh, well.

Anyway, she is lucky, too, because her father, who divorced her mother after he realized she was a total fuck-up, died _before_ she came out to her family, which means she inherited one hell of a lot of money, being an only child and all.

Had she told she was gay when he was still alive, she would be homeless now.

And worse: stuck in Lima, Ohio.

So, yeah—she is pretty damn lucky, because she could afford college _and_ law school, plus moving to New York with her best friend, Quinn.

The perks of having a plastic surgeon as a dad, she guesses.

Santana is also really, really late to brunch with Quinn, but doesn't find it in herself to give a fuck. They share a major law firm in the city—they literally see each other five days a week, for God's sake.

She really doesn't understand all this bonding crap.

Okay, so Judy Fabray took her in when she was tossed out from home, and Quinn is possibly the only person who actually puts up with her crap—but still.

Well, she supposes it doesn't matter, because she has arrived at her destination and hazel eyes are glaring daggers at her.

Oops.

"You are late. Again." Quinn doesn't even bother to stand up from his chair and keeps sipping on her tea. _Healthy people crap_.

"I like to make an entrance, Fabray," See, Santana Lopez doesn't do apologies. Not like Quinn is expecting them. "Plus, you really need to schedule this thing at a more reasonable hour. Or to not schedule it at all. Like, who does brunch? Last time I checked you weren't Carrie Bradshaw."

"Whatever, Santana. You really need to leave your apartment for something that's not work. You are quite the hermit since you and Em—"

"I swear to God, Fabray, if you finish that sentence I will end you."

See, another little thingy that Santana does not do—pep talks, let alone when said pep talks are about how she needs to get her shit together and over _Emily_, her ex-girlfriend.

She can't even stand to hear her name without wanting to murder the entire Earth population.

If that's even possible.

It probably is.

Anger issues. Yeah.

"Woah there, moody much?" Quinn is looking at her with a knowing smirk and it takes all Santana's strength not to remove it from her face with a slap. She figures an eye roll will do.

She just needs this to be over already. And a coffee.

With a huff, she moves to the counter, where the barista, a teenager, is totally checking her out, a coy smile on his pimply face.

Let's just hope puberty does _wonders_.

She orders a cappuccino and tells the boy to keep the change. Turns out being nice from time to time does not kill her.

Quinn is smiling at her when she sits down with the hot, steamy beverage and really, what's with the smiley faces today? Ugh.

"So, how's it going?"

"Are you serious? We literally see each other every day at the firm, Quinn." Another eye roll, but can you really blame her?

"Yeah, but I mean, we only talk about our clients and law stuff. I miss my best friend, so, how are _you_?"

Now, if Santana knows one thing is that her best friend's purposes are a hell of a lot deeper than to know how things are going.

She might need a favor, and Santana is not in the mood—she doesn't know what the favor is, but she's definitely not in the mood. Or worse, she might want to know how she's holding up with the break-up—but really, it's been five months already and it's not like she is _sad_. Don't get her wrong, she is, but not because she was super-duper in love with She-who-must-not-be-named, but because she's, essentially, very fucking lonely. Oh, well. It goes with the _being a royal bitch 24/7_ thing she has going on. Tough life.

Regardless, that's not something that Santana Lopez is going to tell Quinn Fabray.

"I'm fine." Blank face: check.

"So… Are you saying that you don't drink yourself to sleep anymore? Have you drunk dialed your ex again?" She smiles while talking, and if Santana didn't know better, she would think her best friend is taking pity on her.

Except—well, she probably is. Who wouldn't?

But Quinn is just looking out for her in her own fucked up way—they're like sisters, after all. Except for that time they hooked up at a friend's party in freshman year at college. Not one of her proudest moments, but, you know, at least she can tell that the eternal mommy's girl isn't as innocent as she seems. Information is power, after all, and Santana doesn't have ethic problems with blackmail if there ever comes the time when she has to play the Fabgay card.

Oh, yeah—about the "drinking the night away" thing. Santana's not going to lie; she might have some minor issues in that department. But really, she's been through a rough patch. It's not like she's becoming her mother.

"Whatever. I'm an adult, Fabray, spare me the lecture. Besides, the drunk dial was a onetime thing." How many times will she roll her eyes today?

It really was a onetime thing. Hell, the next-day embarrassment was enough for a lifetime. She might be a weepy, hysterical drunk, but she has some dignity. That's why she switches off her cell when she anticipates a major intoxication. Damage control.

"Okay, okay," She raises her hands in defense. "But, you know, you should put yourself out there. Meet people and stuff, I don't know. I'm worried about you."

"Yeah, well, you should worry about yourself." It comes out bitchier than intended, because, yeah, Quinn is just trying to help, but Santana doesn't need this. She's fine. Her life is fine. "Look. I appreciate your concern, I really do, but I don't need this _intervention_ or whatever the hell this is. I'm focused on work, I'm good at what we do and that's all that matters at the moment."

"And I know that—but you are more than somebody who kicks ass at her job, and you should make the most out of your qualities. This is not an intervention, I'm not telling you to get married tomorrow, I understand that you need time, but shit happens, San, you can't seclude yourself from society because of a bad break-up."

Okay, so her best friend might have a point, but the Latina is not about to give in. Lopez's stubbornness, sue her.

"Right. And how do you suggest I do that? It's not like I have the time to meet someone, and I'm not ready yet, I don't think."

She sighs, but keeps staring at her own cup of coffee. Santana's not so good with eye contact. Come to think of it—with any kind of contact. Unless it's sex.

"I might have the perfect idea, but you won't like it." And Santana hasn't heard it but she doesn't like it already. A smirk is starting to show in her best friend's lips and _no_, she doesn't like it one bit. "How do you feel about online dating?"

Okay, so maybe Santana didn't see _that_ coming. Prove: she's actually choking on her coffee.

"Are you kidding? Oh my God, are you high?"

She has to be, right? Or maybe Santana has misunderstood. Yeah, that must be it.

If she wasn't actually kind of _shocked_, she would be laughing her ass off.

"I'm not kidding, and obviously I'm not high." Quinn rolls her eyes but her playful smirk has disappeared. She means business now. "I mean it—no, don't scoff. Listen, it might seem a foreign concept, but it's actually a thing and it works. Well, most of the time, anyway." Okay, so, apart from having an awfully bad taste in potential girlfriends, Santana apparently has a really, really bad taste in friends, too. Maybe she should become an actual hermit. "I know you are skeptical about the whole thing, but just give it a try. I'll help you create a profile and stuff. It will be fun, trust me."

Ah, trust. Trust is a bitch. Santana would know.

"I don't know how to break it for you, Fabray, but, as I suspect you reckon, I'm not exactly a people's person, let alone an Internet people's person. It's not my thing—I would be awkward as hell and would come out bitchier than usual. So, thank you for the advice, but no thank you."

Her cappuccino is cold now. _Just great_. Maybe she could use it as an excuse to put an end to brunch? Why did she get out of her apartment again?

"Look, you don't have to take it seriously if you don't want to. You get an account, see what's the deal, and if you don't like it, you delete it. Easy." Quinn stares at her expectantly, a serious expression on her face.

Plan B—go along with the nonsense, for the sake of her mental health. God knows her best friend can be a pain in the ass with her mind games.

Jeez, she really needs to meet new people and get the fuck away from Quinn.

"Fine." At this, Quinn squeals. Literally, squeals. Lame. And pretty embarrassing, if you ask her. "_But_," Really, the brunette needs to draw a line here. She's not about to give completely in, "if I don't like it, which I won't, I delete the account and we don't talk about this ever again. And by _this_, I mean my love life. Or my life, for that matter."

Quinn does this weird thing where she huffs but also smiles, "You've got yourself a deal, Lopez."

**II**

Santana starts to seriously regret agreeing to this the moment she comes back home with a rather excited Quinn.

She throws her purse and jacket somewhere in the living room and turns around to meet hazel eyes and a perfect grin.

"Do you want something to drink? Water? Arsenic?"

The blonde seems genuinely unimpressed by Santana's attitude—but whatever, she's not going down without a fight—and shakes her head. Santana just shrugs and grabs her laptop from the desk in her bedroom.

"Okay, let's get this over with."

**III**

Fifty minutes later, they haven't made any progress.

Santana likes to think that she's being demanding—she's a complex woman and therefore she has to be thorough and meticulous with the information displayed in her dating profile.

The truth is, she's just being a royal pain in the ass.

She really, really, really doesn't want to do this.

Describing facts was the easy part—she's a 25 year-old lawyer from Lima, Ohio, who's currently living in New York—, and she's totally hot in the picture Quinn chose. However, she has no clue how to describe herself. A self-centered, selfish bitch? Really fucking charming.

Also, Quinn's not helping. At all.

"You could say you are witty and fun to be around. It wouldn't be a lie, _technically_."

"Technically? What does that even mean? I'm smart _and_ hilarious. So are a gazillion of other people, Quinn. It's very fucking boring. We should think about something short and kind of mysterious, maybe?"

"Right. Short and mysterious." She looks deep in thought for a moment, and then a knowing smile appears. "Got it! _Fierce, femme, phenomenal_." Quinn types it down while she's saying it out loud, her tongue poking at the side of her mouth. "Boom. Fucking genius."

It actually looks good enough—not that she's concerned, because let's be real, this profile isn't even going to last 24 hours.

Santana hums in approval and shrugs nonchalantly. "Not bad, I guess. What do I do now?"

"Now, Latin lover, you wait."

"You know, that was kinda racist."

"Whatever."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Hi there. So, I guess this chapter is a heavy going one if you are not into law stuff. Sorry about that. It gets better by the end, I promise.

**A/N 2: **In this fic, Santana is a lawyer in New York City—therefore, the legal terms and reasonings used are based on English common law. My country, however, follows the Civil law tradition. So, yeah: mistakes are bound to happen. Sorry (again).

**Warning: **This chapter might be triggering.

**Rating: **M for swearing and future sexy times.

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Glee.

All mistakes are my own.

* * *

><p><strong>I<strong>

Santana Lopez is a lot of things.

She's fierce and brave—or that's what her client, Luce, says.

This woman's been beaten by her husband, an alcoholic son of a bitch, for five years. Last time, he came home drunk in the middle of the night and punched his wife almost to death—that was the last straw. Luce moved out of the house that very night and hired Santana the day after the incident.

The case would be a piece of cake if the guy, Shane, wasn't a fucking cop—that means Luce was afraid to report him and, as a result, it is damn hard to form a solid defense. Her medical history isn't useful at all—her husband knew better than to send her wife to the hospital, of course—, and there are only six pictures of the injuries. _Six_. Six pictures taken the day after Luce got the hell out of her house, despite the fact that she was a victim for five years.

Santana is very, _very_ fucking frustrated with this case.

She probably would have dished it to someone else if Luce hadn't come to her crying and desperate. _Broken_—that was the word Quinn used to describe her.

Santana has a soft spot for broken, hopeless people.

Maybe she's one of them.

**II**

A knock on the door diverts her attention from the defense strategy she's developing. People working at this firm are seriously unseasonable.

"Come in."

Tina, her secretary, pokes her head around the door. She has a blank expression and her lips are pursed. Great—this is probably bad news.

The Latina groans. "This isn't really a good time, Tina."

"Shane's requesting a jury trial, Santana."

Fuck.

**III**

The thing about jury trials is that a charming, good-looking policeman is probably going to be perceived as the city hero even though he used his wife as a punching bag for several years.

In short: the situation is well beyond the definition of totally fucked up.

How couldn't she see this coming?

Santana has to develop a whole new plan now, and she needs all the help she can get. That's why she schedules a meeting with Luce, Quinn and her interns.

"Quiet, please, guys." She's the HBIC here—Fabray's kind of the good guy—, but she really needs their help now. Maybe being kind and polite _is_ a good idea. "Okay, I'd like to introduce you to Luce, she's been my client for three months now, and she needs us." The Latina keeps a straight, serious face. Luce stares at the floor with a vacant gaze. Santana sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Now, I know most of you are not familiar with this case, that's why Tina here," She points to the Asian girl, who smiles sheepishly, "will fill you in with the details and intricacies of it."

Everybody looks at Santana with confused, clueless expressions. _Right_, the main cause of the meeting. "So, I suppose you are all wondering why I've gathered you here at lunch time." She has always wanted to say that—don't judge her. She clears her voice and starts talking. "Well, I need you because the trial will be heard before a jury of citizens and, to put it simply, we are kind of screwed. I want you to read the files and study them like you had to be Luce's lawyer and bring together ideas to form a solid defense."

Suddenly, Quinn stands up from her chair and moves in front of the room, next to Santana and Luce. She has this feline look, her piercing hazel eyes looking at everyone with a ferocious intensity, and the brunette can't quite put a finger on what the problem is.

Except.

She believes she can.

The Latina knows this case hits a little too close to home—Russell Fabray went too far with his verbal abuse in many occasions until Judy divorced him.

Too close, indeed.

She wouldn't require Quinn's aid if it wasn't completely necessary, but she feels kind of a jerk right now.

Her best friend looks at her expectantly, a hard expression on her face—she wants to speak up. Santana nods faintly. The blonde is clear and distinct when she talks.

(It would be a major turn on if Quinn wasn't like family.)

"I want you to prepare the questioning of the prospective jurors, and then I want you to dig the dirt on the selected people and to keep track of them. We need to know everything: their favorite color, the high school they attended, their puppy's goddamn name—_everything_. We've got to develop a defense that allows us to win the jury over, so I suggest you get right on it—this is a priority case now. Dismissed."

The blonde's hard expression still remains when she looks at Santana, and the Latina puts a tentative hand on her shoulder. Quinn's eyes soften at the gesture and she nods softly, leaving the room.

Santana sighs and walks Luce to the exit.

Today's been a hell of a day, and this is just the beginning.

**IV**

She gets home with the intention of taking a hot, bubbly bath that might or might not involve a glass of red wine and soul music.

But, obviously—that's not going to happen. As soon as she starts taking off her clothes, her cell phone buzzes. Quinn.

_Jury selection's on Monday. Presumably 12 jurors. Check your e-mail, I've sent you new possible angles for a defense. See you tomorrow. – Q_

The brunette groans. Being an attorney is a rewarding job but also very fucking demanding. She can't even remember the last time she took a day off. Shit. She gets her best friend, she really does—this case is important to her. The blonde has probably been through all the files already and knows the case even better than the Latina herself, but hell, give Santana a damn break.

She turns on her laptop and cracks a beer open—better than nothing, she guesses.

Okay, so Quinn has developed at least five different strategies for several case scenarios, all of them equally brilliant. Santana swears the woman's a robot. She just hopes the interns do a good job preparing the questions—at least then she'd have a chance to identify potentially biased jurors and reject them. _Voir dire_ is a bitch sometimes.

Now her mind is buzzing with new information and possibilities. She's not going to relax today, is she?

But before she can start working again, a window pops up in her screen.

Right, the online dating app she didn't even remember to uninstall.

_You have three new messages_. Oh, so maybe the whole "Latin lover" thing is pretty accurate, she thinks.

(Santana high fives herself mentally.)

Not that she's excited to potentially get her mack on with virtual strangers. They could be serial killers—or worse: conniving bitches like her ex. But really, reading the messages and checking these women out could do no wrong, right? She'll uninstall the app later. No problem.

_[14/03/2014, 22:58 PM]_ Petunia says _Hi there, hottie. I'd really like to see that fierce, femme and phenomenal little thing for myself. Contact me ;) xx_

Universal truth: this Petunia chick will forever be single because she has no game. And, like—her name's Petunia. No, thank you.

_[15/03/2014, 09:20 AM]_ Elise says _Hello, Santana. Name's Elise, Canadian living in NYC. Check my profile. Wanna talk, maybe? x_

So, Elise seemed actually nice until the Latina checked her profile. Maybe she should contact her and formally request her to change that picture? To do a good deed and all.

_[15/03/2014, 14:32 PM]_ Brittany says _Hi :)_

The message is simple, and really not that appealing—but the Latina finds herself clicking on the link that leads to the girl's profile.

_Hi, this is Brittany S. Pierce. Not to be confused with Britney Spears. That totally happened once. Anyway, I'm 23 years old and from Lima, Ohio. Oh, I'm a dancer. And I like ducks. And this description is probably a mess, isn't it? Okay, bye._

She has to laugh at the description—Brittany here has sure made an impression on Santana—, but she stops grinning as soon as she sees her picture.

Turns out, this girl is a freaking goddess. Blonde, blue eyes, body to die for…

…and her smile could probably light up the entire city, or the whole country, even. So there's that.

But then again—she's from Lima, Ohio. That fucking shithole. Santana promised herself she would never, ever, set foot on it again.

She rolls her eyes at herself—it's not like the brunette's going to marry the girl. So she answers. What's wrong with having a little fun? That's right, nothing.

_[15/03/2014, 21:13 PM]_ Santana says _Hey._

Oh God, too snappy? Shit.

_[15/03/2014, 21:14 PM]_ Santana says _:)_

And now she seems just plain stupid.

**V**

She rereads her sent messages at least four times and shakes her head—could she be more awkward? She can't even play it cool with strangers. Ugh. Maybe she should just remove this crap from her laptop already? Blondie isn't going to answer anyway, and even if she did, it's not like they could possib—

_[15/03/2014, 21:56 PM]_ Brittany says _You answered! :) How are you?_

Conclusion: this girl is weird as fuck. Like—why does she talk to Santana like they already know each other? Who asks a stranger "how are you?"? And why is she happy that the Latina answered? Wasn't she expecting her to?

She needs another beer.

_[15/03/2014, 22:01 PM]_ Santana says _Yeah, I did. Today's been hell, but I'm fine. Just got home from work. You?_

If Santana knows one thing is that she shouldn't reveal that much of information to strangers. It might be dangerous, or something. She doesn't even talk that much to Quinn. She's a private person, okay?

_[15/03/2014, 22:03 PM]_ Brittany says _Oh, that's right, you are a lawyer. Must be exciting. I just got home from work, too. I'm a dancer. Well, you probably know that already. You've checked my profile, right? Because I totally checked yours. Sam said that's what you do here. _

_[15/03/2014, 22:03 PM]_ Brittany says _Am I rambling?_

_[15/03/2014, 22:04 PM] _Brittany says _Oh God, I'm definitely rambling. Sorry._

Santana has to laugh (again) at this. Who rambles when they're typing on a computer? The thing about the Internet is that allows you to be all collected and to avoid awkward interactions, right? At least that's what the Latina thought.

Also, who the hell is Sam?

_[15/03/2014, 22:05 PM]_ Brittany says _Are you there? I swear I'm not usually that creepy. Are you mad?_

And now the girl's worried about Santana?

_[15/03/2014, 22:05 PM]_ Santana says _I'm here. You're not creepy, I just wasn't expecting that. Sorry, I'm not mad. So, a dancer? In Lima?_

So, apparently, Santana Lopez apologizes to strangers and is nice to them now. Hot strangers, yeah—but still.

_[15/03/2014, 22:06 PM]_ Brittany says _Yeah, I run a studio with a friend. What's wrong with Lima?_

_[15/03/2014, 22:07 PM]_ Santana says _Nothing—it's just that I grew up there and young people didn't just stay unless they had to, or else they were kind of stupid. I moved to New York as soon as I could get the hell out of there, lol._

_[15/03/2014, 22:15 PM]_ Santana says _Hello?_

Oh God, has she said something wrong? Has she fucked up with the girl already? Why isn't Brittany answering? Why does Santana care? Fuck.

Another beer, maybe?

_[15/03/2014, 22:41 PM]_ Brittany says _Sorry, I had to go walk Lord Tubbington._

_[15/03/2014, 22:41 PM]_ Brittany says _He's my cat. In case you're wondering._

_[15/03/2014, 22:42 PM]_ Brittany says _I gotta go. Good night._

The Latina stares at the received messages and scoffs. Really, if the girl doesn't like Santana, she can tell her—there's no need to make up an excuse, let alone a super lame one like that. Like, who walks their cat? Who names their cat Lord Tubbington?

Fact: this app is complete bullshit.

She goes to bed without replying.

(And without finishing her drink.)

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><p><strong>AN 3: **Thank you all for the follows, favorites and reviews.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Hi there. Thanks for the lovely reviews, favorites and follows. Sorry it's taken me so long to post a new chapter, and double sorry for it being a little shorter than the others. Being an adult sucks. I'll make it up to you next time (probably).

**A/N 2: **Summary of the chapter is: Santana being a lawyer and Quinntana being Quinntana. Brittana is always on, though. Patience is the key to joy, folks.

**Rating: **M for swearing and future sexy times.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, I still don't own Glee.

All mistakes are my own

* * *

><p><strong>I<strong>

Santana Lopez is a lot of things.

She is super proud to be captain of the Monday Haters' Club. Which doesn't technically exist, but, you know, she likes to be overdramatic like that sometimes, sue her. Or better don't, because she'll beat your sorry ass in court. Oh, snap.

So, yeah—today is Monday, and the Latina kind of just wants to buy a flamethrower and set the whole city on fire.

She would exactly do that if it wasn't for the damn jury's selection.

The Latina really doesn't want to fuck this up. Luce deserves justice.

She's read the questions her interns prepared a thousand times already. Finding out she actually works with quite competent people was a pleasant surprise. Not that she thought they were incapable or unskilled—more like _inexperienced_. That's right.

**II**

Anyway, she nails it in court—_duh_. The citizen's jury will be composed of twelve jurors, as Quinn already predicted. She thinks there's at least a fifty percent chance of actually winning this case, which is pretty good given the circumstances, if you ask her.

Santana could easily go home and text her best friend to give her a heads up on the good news since her schedule is clear today—Tina basically ignores all her client's phone calls on Mondays—, but she wants to stop by the firm instead. It's warm outside and she could use a walk.

(And she's a workaholic like that.)

_Q, I'm on my way to the firm. Gather everybody in the conference room. Meet you there in 10 min — S_

She stops by Starbucks to grab a coffee and, ten minutes after that, she is pushing the eleventh elevator button, ready to deliver the announcement. When she gets to the conference room, everyone's already waiting for her, and Quinn looks at the brunette eagerly.

"Good morning everybody." The Latina starts, taking the last swig of her coffee and feeling it burn her throat. "I just left court and, honestly, I believe we might have a shot at winning Luce's case if we do our best." Her blonde friend closes her eyes and lets out a relieved breath. The interns seem happy, too. "Now, as you know, we need to investigate these people. That is the rough part. I need you to be thorough and focused, okay?" When she can see everyone nodding, Santana grabs the notes from her file folder and updates the crew on who these jurors are.

Rachel Berry. 27. Jewish. Gay dads. Broadway understudy. (_Freakishly annoying voice_);

Sebastian Smythe. 32. Caucasian. Banker. (_What is wrong with his teeth?_);

Shannon Beiste. 43. Caucasian. High school coach. Victim of domestic violence;

Mercedes Jones. 29. African American. Record label owner;

Jessie St. James. 28. Caucasian. PR consultant. (_Weird hair_);

Finn Hudson. 30. Caucasian. Unemployed. (_Probably a giant_);

William Schuester. 41. Caucasian. Spanish teacher;

Arthur Abrams. 24. Caucasian. Accountant. Disabled;

Emma Pillsbury. 40. Caucasian. Maid. (_Weird eyes_);

Susan Sylvester. 46. Caucasian. Unemployed? (_Probably a major bitch_);

David Karofsky. 30. Caucasian. Bodyguard. (_Gay vibes_);

Kitty Wilde. 23. Caucasian. Hand model. (_Major bitch Jr with a ridiculous job_).

Okay, so maybe the notes weren't _exactly_ necessary, but you never know. And sometimes the inner bitch in Santana just needs to come out and play.

"Everybody pair up and start working. I want everything you can get on the jurors on my desk by Thursday morning. See you tomorrow." There's a collective groan and the Latina smirks. She still remembers her time as an intern once she finished law school. She had to do all the crappy stuff her asshole boss couldn't be bothered to even think about. Tough life, indeed.

The Latina sees Quinn approaching her. "Do you really think we can win this?" The uneasiness in her voice makes Santana sigh.

"Yeah, I mean, let's wait to see what we can find out about these people and work from there. My psychic Mexican third eye just has a feeling." The brunette shrugs. She really wishes she knew for sure.

Quinn narrows her eyes. "Your family was Puerto Rican, Santana."

"Shut up."

"So, dinner? I really need a break from this case."

Santana knows what her best friend means: she's also emotionally and mentally exhausted because of the uncertainty that surrounds the whole situation. The Latina has always liked working under pressure, but it seems like she's constantly walking on eggshells now.

"Sure. My place at eight? I cook, you brings da wine."

"You seriously need to stop doing that." Santana tries to glare at her, but Quinn sees through it and cracks her charming smile. "See you later."

"Don't try to change me, Fabray!"

**III**

Santana's never been one for cooking, really, but she sure as hell can make some mean fajitas.

Sometimes, she wishes she could remember all the recipes her Abuela taught her when she was a child. The woman was a bitch, sure, and Santana didn't even feel an ounce of sadness when she passed away, _sure_, but it's been ages since she stuffed her face with some heavenly _arroz con dulce_, and, really, she kind of misses it.

(She misses a decent meal a hell of a lot.)

She's humming some annoying pop song while she sets the table when she hears a knock.

The brunette opens the door, smirking. "Since when do you knock, Fabray?"

"Whatever. I was just trying to be polite."

"That's a first."

Quinn lets herself in and puts the bottle of wine on the kitchen counter with a huff. "Yeah, I forgot the spare keys you gave me at home. Also, bitch."

**IV**

Dinner with Quinn is nice—there's something familiar in it.

Santana thinks about her life back in Lima: when Judy Fabray took her in and held her while she cried herself to sleep that very first night; learning what it was to care about someone; learning what it was like to have a family.

The Latina really misses those days—not the pain, not the hurt of being disowned by her own mother, but the genuine love she was able to feel towards others when she thought she was helpless and broken.

The Latina really thought she was unworthy of love.

Sometimes she still believes it, but just then, Quinn shows up unannounced at her door and she realizes that blood doesn't make family.

(She needs to call Judy soon.)

Look at her, all sappy and grown up and shit.

Just when she thinks she's actually a lucky woman despite all the crap she's been through, Quinn opens her mouth. "Okay, I think you've drunk enough glasses of wine to answer my question." The blonde clears her throat and stares at the Latina with a stoic expression. "How was the whole online dating thing?"

Of course Quinn wouldn't have forgotten about _that_.

And the Latina automatically remembers Angel face—_Brittany_, right? Santana hasn't even logged in to the app since she talked to Brittany, but she has a feeling there won't be any new messages from her.

She lets out a long sigh.

(Is she disappointed?)

The brunette really fucked up with Blondie, she believes.

And because of the damn wine, her brain decides that it's actually a good idea to tell Quinn about it. Yep.

"Oh my God, you are an asshole!"

"What? I didn't even say anything mean!"

"Santana, what the fuck? You literally called the girl stupid!"

"Well, when you put it that way…"

So, it's been confirmed: she screwed up big time.

"You are going to fix it, right?"

Is she?

"Um, actually—"

"Santana! You are _so_ going to fix it! Turn on the damn computer right now!"

There we go; bossy Quinn just made an appearance. Can't a girl just have a peaceful evening? Jesus Christ, this woman.

Groaning, the Latina grabs her laptop, turning it on, and plops into the couch once again. She can feel hazel eyes watching her moves like a hawk.

Quinn is fucking annoying.

**V**

"_Sorry about the other day?_ That's probably the lamest apology I've ever heard, Quinn."

"Then think about something, woman!"

**VI**

Half an hour later, they have come out with a slightly decent apology, but seriously—what the fuck is Santana doing? She isn't even sure she did something wrong.

Okay, she kind of is, but she's not ready to admit it yet.

(She doesn't do apologies, dammit.)

_[19/03/2014, 22:31 PM]_ Santana says _Hi, Brittany. So… Did I say something wrong the other day? Are you mad at me? I didn't mean to call you stupid, if that's what made you upset. I'm really sorry. I'd really like to talk to you soon. Good night. _

"I actually seem like a good person, huh?"

"You are a good person. But you are mostly a dumbass."

"Thank you, Quinnie. I really appreciate that."

"Deal with it, bitch."

**VII**

The Latina is drunk. Since when is she a lightweight? 17 year old Santana Lopez would be laughing her ass off at her.

She was known for holding her liquor like a boss, for God's sake.

Anyway, the two girls are literally _giggling_ like maniacs at some lame joke that didn't even make sense when a new message pops in the brunette's laptop.

Brittany?

Oh my God, it's Brittany.

Fuck, she's drunk.

"Oh my God… What if—what if she doesn't forgive me, Quinn? I'm the _worst_ person ever! She's not going to forgive me and I'm going to die alone and—like, she's like this Greek goddess with sunshine hair and long, long legs and I already fucked up with her! I'm a jerk and—why are you laughing at me? It's not funny!"

"Sorry, just… Are you—you are crying! This is priceless!"

"I'm not crying, okay? I'm a badass, I do not do tears."

"You are totally crying and it's okay to be a weepy drunk, Santana."

That is something that the brunette will never accept. "Am not."

"Are too!"

"Can you just shut up and read the message?"

"What, are you afraid to do it?"

Thank God for Hispanic genes, because Santana Lopez sure as fuck wouldn't like to be seen actually _blushing_. "Maybe?"

Quinn looks at her like she's crazy but stops laughing and reads the message aloud.

"_I know. It's okay, San, I'm not mad at you. How are you?_ And a smiley face. Hold up, since when is anyone but me allowed to call you San?"

She kind of ignores her best friend and the potential teasing—like, is Quinn seriously jealous? That's hilarious. But ain't nobody got time for that right now; there are more important matters at stake. "Wait, she's not angry? Gimme that."

Quinn keeps talking, she thinks, but the Latina cannot focus on her at the moment—she's engrossed in the little smiley face that appears on the screen.

Who the fuck is that nice to strangers? Not the Latina, that's for sure.

Yeah—Angel face is an actual angel.

* * *

><p><strong>AN 3: **Jesus Christ, that was super crappy. Oops.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N 1: **Hi there. Thank you to those who reviewed, followed and favorited. I have a feeling you will enjoy this chapter.

**A/N 2: **My schedule has been hectic these past weeks and it's going to worsen. I feel like I'm always apologizing, but again, I'm sorry. I might not have time to write as much as I would like in the near future.

**Rating: **M for swearing and future sexy times.

**Disclaimer:** I'd really like to own Santana Lopez, but you know how it goes.

All mistakes are my own.

* * *

><p><strong>I<strong>

Santana Lopez is a lot of things.

She's really, really glad—and kind of grateful for Quinn, but that's not something she's willing to concede to her friend just yet—that she got to unfold the wonders of the Internet.

Turns out, not everybody out there is a psychopath, which is surprising to say the least; but most importantly, the Latina's established that Brittany S. Pierce is probably the nicest person she's ever met.

(And she hasn't even met her.)

(_Yet_.)

(Wait, what?)

Anyway, Santana's been chatting with Brittany practically non-stop since she apologized, which is kind of weird, because the brunette isn't one to grow attached to someone in such a short period of time. Or in any amount of time for that matter.

(What? She doesn't like people and people don't like her. It's only fair.)

There's something about the blue-eyed blonde that the Latina can't really figure out. And let's be honest here: that usually infuriates her inner control freak to no end. Oddly, though, now she just has this sudden urge to solve the puzzle that is the dancer's quirky mind.

Sometimes, that is a freaking exhausting battle—like, the other day, the two girls were talking about places they have never been to and Brittany, in what she assumes was a very complex brain process, brought up ducks to the conversation.

_Ducks_. Who does that?

But it's kind of funny, actually, because Santana always manages to follow the apparent non-sense like a boss.

She just gets and doesn't get Brittany at the same time.

It's confusing, she knows.

Shut up.

**II**

It's Friday, and Santana has just arrived home from an uneventful day at work: paperwork, first coffee, phone calls, scolding interns just because, second coffee, dealing with annoying clients, Luce's case, Luce's case, Luce's case, frowning just because, staring into the middle distance, huffing just because, complaining to Tina just because, Luce's case, third coffee in four hours, more paperwork, more phone calls.

She didn't choose the thug life; the thug life chose her.

_Right_, so the Latina plops into the sofa with a thud. She sighs. Normally, she would have poured herself a glass of red already, but she turns on her laptop instead.

Her mind doesn't even register what she's doing; she's repeated the action enough times these past days for it to become a habit.

At first, she thought she was just doing it to check her e-mail or review work related files, but really—who did she think she was fooling?

So she doesn't even try to justify herself or her new routine anymore: the brunette just really wants to talk to Brittany.

And well, it kind of sucks, because the blonde isn't technically her _friend_. She's a mere stranger who is nice to her. Despite that, the Latina could really use someone like her, she thinks: somebody as non-judgmental, endearing, innocent and optimistic as Brittany. Again, the thug life.

She sighs once more.

But it's also refreshing, in a way, because Santana doesn't need to play pretend with the girl on the other side of the screen. It's just easy. She's not awkward or uncomfortable because, even though it's a dating site, she feels as if she's just getting to know somebody without all the pressure that inevitably comes with it in real life.

If that makes any sense, anyway.

_[28/03/2014, 19:52 PM]_ Santana says _Hey, Britt. How's it going? :)_

Instead of being a creep and stare at her computer until Blondie answers, she puts on her Batman pajamas and scavenges for something to eat in her fridge.

No such luck. Yoghurt will have to do.

Also, yeah—Batman. Problem?

When she sits back down on her couch, Brittany has already replied.

_[28/03/2014, 19:58 PM]_ Brittany says _Hello._

Okay, that's weird.

Santana tilts her head and narrows her eyes, brown orbs scanning the message.

In fact, it's really, really weird, because usually Brittany would have said _hey, San!_, plus a million smiley cute faces and then would've proceeded to tell Santana that _super awesome_ thing that happened to her today.

The Latina quickly goes through all the messages she's exchanged with the blonde in the past few days to check she didn't fuck up again, but that doesn't seem to be the case.

She exhales.

But suddenly it dawns on her that if Brittany is not mad at her, something must be wrong, and well, she doesn't really know how to approach the subject—or if she should even try to approach it.

Shouldn't she?

She should, right?

Santana kind of cares about the girl, after all. And, contrary to popular belief, she's not that big of a bitch. She just needs to be gentle and understanding and patient and everything she's not. Easy. There's no need to be freaking the fuckity fuck out.

Okay, deep breaths.

She starts to write a reply—

But wait. How does she even know that something's wrong with Brittany? Again, it's not like they are friends. And probably the girl doesn't want to be bothered. Maybe the blonde is just not in the mood today.

Santana should probably let her be and talk to her tomorrow... Right?

(The Latina faintly remembers the philosophy course she took at college. _Man is by nature a social animal_. Yeah, no. Fuck you, Aristotle.)

**III**

Plan B: What would Quinn do?

No, okay, her best friend is probably not the best example right now.

Plan C: What would Jesus do?

**IV**

It's taken almost fifteen minutes but Santana finally comes to the conclusion that she has to talk to Brittany, partly because she _sort of_ really fucking wants to do so, even though something might be up with the blonde, and partly because she genuinely cares.

There she goes.

_[28/03/2014, 20:10 PM]_ Santana says _Are you okay?_

That wasn't so bad. She thinks she can do this. Yeah. She definitely can do this. The response is almost automatic.

_[28/03/2014, 20:10 PM]_ Brittany says _Not really._

_[28/03/2014, 20:11 PM]_ Santana says _What's wrong?_

Santana's worried now. She's not sure she'll be able to make Brittany feel better, but she really wants to try.

It seems like she's becoming one of _those_ people. Great.

_[28/03/2014, 20:13 PM]_ Brittany says _I wouldn't want to bother you, San. Don't worry about it. Thanks, though._

_[28/03/2014, 20:13 PM]_ Santana says _Are you sure? You can talk to me, you know?_

Ten minutes. No response.

Twenty minutes. Nope.

Thirty-five minutes. That's what you get for caring.

She shuts down the laptop and grabs the bottle of wine resting on the kitchen counter.

**V**

Santana usually loves Saturdays because she has time to go for a jog, grab a coffee and clear her mind. But today something is irking her.

Something, something, something.

She doesn't know what this something is until she reaches a small pond in Central Park. And of course, there's ducks. And of course, she thinks of Brittany.

The fact that the girl didn't reply yesterday pisses her off a lot. The Latina was just trying to be kind for once and now she feels stupid and disappointed. Like, okay, they aren't buddies, but she thought Brittany trusted her. The feeling must be one-sided, though.

The blonde was rude. Rude and ungrateful and kind of mean.

But even though Santana is mad, she's also worried. Plus, making Brittany open up seems an awful lot like a challenge.

She's going to talk to Angel face as soon as she gets home.

Hopefully, she will be online.

**VI**

Okay, so she's at home now, computer on her lap, trying to find the right words—mostly because _hey, I'm pissed off at you but I like being your kind of friend so just tell me what's wrong so I can start enjoying my freaking Saturday already_ doesn't seem really nice.

**VII**

Hold on.

Hold the fuck on.

She has a plan.

_[29/03/2014, 11:05 AM]_ Santana says _Morning, Britts. How are you?_

Tick, tack.

Tick, tack.

Well, time to start freaking out again. Fuck the plan.

Maybe Brittany doesn't want to talk to Santana anymore. It would be okay. Not exactly okay, okay—but okay. That would explain why she didn't answer last night and why she isn't replying now.

It's not like the Latina has said something bad, either—she checked yesterday and she's double-checking now. She'll probably triple-check later, just to be 100% sure. But perhaps the blonde is already tired of Santana. They've been talking a lot these days. The Latina thought Brittany was enjoying their conversations, but maybe she wasn't. After all, that's what happened with her ex. Emily said she was overwhelmed and that's why she chea—

_[29/03/2014, 11:26 AM]_ Brittany says _Hi. I'm fine. What about you?_

Oh, okay. Brittany's still off, it seems. But Santana is back to the game.

_[29/03/2014, 11:27 AM]_ Santana says _I'm great. I was just wondering something._

_[29/03/2014, 11:28 AM]_ Brittany says _What is it?_

Santana knows that she's taking a risk. She breathes before writing. A pause. Maybe it's not such a good idea. She rereads her message and gulps.

Man up, Lopez.

She presses enter with her eyes closed.

_[29/03/2014, 11:29 AM]_ Santana says _If I, hypothetically, asked you for your number, what would you say? Like… Would it creep you out?_

There.

It's not a big deal, really, but she feels this can change their dynamics completely. It's just a phone number, after all. But the prospect of texting Brittany instead of doing… _this_ is pretty appealing, honestly.

They would be more in touch, so they'll grow closer—that way, the blonde would eventually trust her, right? It's a perfect plan. Genius.

She has her eyes shut for a long time—five minutes?—before she can bring herself to open them.

_[29/03/2014, 11:32 AM]_ Brittany says _Well, I don't know._

Okay, that wasn't what Santana was expecting. At all. But before she can flip her shit over how stupid she is for even thinking about this stupid, stupid plan, another message pops up on her screen.

_[29/03/2014, 11:33 AM]_ Brittany says _Do you think you can try to do it? I'm not really good with hypothetical situations._

The girl's a tease, that's for sure.

Santana starts typing down the question, but she stops. What if Brittany says no? That would be embarrassing. Oh, boy.

She just needs to be her charming self.

Right.

_[29/03/2014, 11:34 AM]_ Santana says _Hello, pretty girl, can I have your number? ;)_

_[29/03/2014, 11:35 AM]_ Brittany says _You are a dork. But yes, you can. :)_

Mission accomplished. Boom.

**VIII**

Sunday.

Santana texted Brittany last night so she could have her number, too, but she's yet to receive anything from the blonde.

It's not like she's _waiting_ for a text.

Whatever, maybe she is, but she's impatient like that, okay?

The Latina just doesn't want to be the first to engage a "conversation"—she already feels like a creep.

She sighs.

The Latina doesn't have the time to dwell much on it, anyway. She has to catch up with some paperwork and call Quinn. She thinks it's better to start with the latter.

"_Whaddup?_"

"Oh my God, Fabray. What the fuck was that?" The brunette laughs. Quinn has spent too much time with her. "Are you from Lima Heights now, too?"

"_Oh, shut up. Don't make me go all ghetto on your ass._" Santana rolls her eyes as Quinn giggles. "_So, what do you want?_"

"Jeez. Can't I be a good best friend and call you just because?" Quinn scoffs. "Okay, okay. Just calling to say that Luce will stop by the firm tomorrow but I won't be there, since it's Monday—"

"_You know, Mondays are actually working days and—_"

"Yeah, no, thanks. Anyway, I won't be there and it would be really, really nice of you if you could fill her in on what we've got and all that jazz. I would tell Tina to do it but, you know, I _trust_ yo—"

"_Aren't you a charmer? It's okay, San, I'll do it, no need to sweet-talk me. What time is she swinging by?_"

"Eleven."

The blonde thinks for a moment. "_'Kay._"

"Thanks, bestie. I owe you one! Love you."

"_Love you, too, my homie._"

"Oh my God."

**IX**

Santana is comfy in her bed, reading a book, when she hears her phone buzzing. Damn people. It's almost midnight, for Christ's sake.

The Latina gets up with a grunt. She stubs her toe against one of the legs of her bed.

"Fuck."

Regaining her balance, she starts searching her cell.

(She needs to tidy up the bedroom. Some day.)

When she finds it, her heart flips.

_Hey, San. Sorry, it's super late. I just wanted to wish you a good night. — Britt_

_Hi :) It's okay, I was just reading. I'm not sleepy. How are you? — Santana_

A pause. Another buzz.

_Not sleepy, either. Can I ask you something? — Britt_

_Of course. — Santana_

_Can you call me? I really want to hear your voice. — Britt_

_Now? — Santana_

_If that's okay? You don't have to. — Britt_

_Give me a sec. — Santana_

Oh God.

Oh. God.

And just like that, Santana is freaking out for the millionth time this weekend.

* * *

><p><strong>AN 3: **Dat cliffhanger, tho.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N 1: **Hi there. So, here it is: the phone call. Hooray! As always, thank you for your reviews, favorites and follows. I try to reply to reviews via PM when possible—obviously, if you are guests, it's not. Sorry. Just know that I really appreciate it when you take the time to give feedback. You are absolutely great, my friends.

**A/N 2: **I know this chapter is _kind of_ late. I apologize! College's been kicking my ass big time. But now it's over, so yeah. Yay me.

**Rating: **M for swearing and future sexy times.

**Disclaimer: **I still don't own Glee. If I did, it would probably be renamed as The Totally Amazing Brittana Show. Or something.

All mistakes are my own.

* * *

><p><strong>I<strong>

Santana Lopez is a lot of things.

The most important one at the moment, though, is that she's scared shitless of calling Brittany.

She seriously didn't think this through.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The Latina mocks herself with a ridiculous voice. "Yeah, _Santana_, you do that: think of a _perfect_ plan that includes a _phone number_ but go bananas when she asks _you_ to _call_ her." She pauses, huffs, and then throws up her hands in utter hopelessness. "That's right! Because that's _not_ what cell phones are _precisely_ supposed to do. Fucking genius. Jesus Christ." She face palms herself.

(Also, _go bananas_? What the hell.)

Okay. She needs to get it together. There's no freaking time to make a fuss.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, the lawyer clutches the cell to her chest and takes a deep breath.

That's better.

Now, time to make up an excuse not to call Brittany.

**II**

She cannot think of anything to avoid this, mostly because her last message sort of implied that she was going to call. So, basically, she's screwed.

Santana can't even tell why she is this nervous.

You see, maybe if she had Kurt's ridiculous voice—an old high school friend—, she would actually have a reason to be all jittery. But her voice is raspy, sultry and, well, sexy as fuck. She knows. Her hook-ups know. Hell, even Quinn knows.

(Gross.)

She nailed every Amy Winehouse's song in her glee club days, for God's sake. There's no need to be scared. She's got this. A Lopez doesn't back off.

(Except maybe for Santana's mother and the rest of her family members.)

The Latina needs to put back on her nonchalant, charming façade urgently and just do it. She put herself in this situation, after all. Also, she's still worried about Brittany. This might be the perfect chance to get to know her better, right? Maybe cheer her up?

It's just a phone call.

Just a phone call, that's right.

So, yeah—it's time to face the music.

**III**

She's hyperventilating when she scrolls past the contacts on her phone, looking for the dancer's number.

Calm down, calm down, calm down.

_Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep... _End call.

_Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep... _End call.

Nada. Tumbleweed. The crickets keep singing like they know the score.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Santana doesn't know what Brittany's deal is. Maybe the blonde thinks this is a game, but the lawyer's certainly not remotely amused. It's not even funny. Like, it's Sunday, it's freaking midnight, yet _she_ wants the Latina to call her, and when she does, Legs doesn't fucking pick up—she just leaves her high and dry.

That's a whole new level of not cool in the brunette's book.

Wait, did she freak out for a long time before she mustered up the courage to call? Maybe Blondie's fallen asleep waiting.

Checking the time, Santana sighs and sits on the edge of her bed. No. It's only been six minutes and twenty-four seconds. Twenty-five. Twenty-si—

Her cell goes off.

_Incoming call: Britt._

Just don't think about it, just don't think about it, just don't think about it.

"He—" She chokes on her own saliva. Great. She clears her suddenly dry throat and swallows the lump that seems to have formed there. What. The. Fuck. "Hello?" She tries again.

For a moment, the Latina can only hear a soft breath.

"_Hi._" A timid voice on the other end of the line finally mutters.

Santana's stomach flutters. She thinks she might need to throw up. "Hey, Britt."

"_Hi._"

The Latina smiles. "You already said that."

"_Oh—right. Sorry. I just—hi. You have a really pretty voice._"

"Thanks." Santana blushes. Like, for real. Santana Marie Lopez is blushing because Brittany S. Pierce is too cute for her own good. And, what the hell, Santana's had a lot of people compliment her voice, but the blonde is the only one that has had this kind of effect on her. What the hell. The Latina radiates confidence and determination. Like, leaving her all flustered is hard as fuck.

Except for Brittany, it seems.

Regaining her composure, she speaks again. "Um—" Yeah, so much for regaining her composure. "So, what's up? How come you are not sleepy? It's kind of late."

She's actually surprised at how relatively natural it is to start a conversation with Brittany, even though she doesn't exactly know her. The situation should be awkward—and, okay, it is, _a little_—but she's not uncomfortable. She hasn't hung up yet, has she? That's good, she thinks.

The dancer sighs. But, like, a sad sigh. "_Yeah, I've been having trouble sleeping._"

Santana doesn't know why, but she finds herself suddenly whispering: "Hey, what's wrong?"

The Latina waits for an answer.

For all she knows, she could be assuming too much in Brittany's off demeanor. She just has a feeling that the blonde is this ball of energy and happiness and, well, that's kind of lacking right now.

She waits, she waits, she waits.

She's suddenly remembered of the fact that they don't even know each other. They are strangers. Santana is not supposed to act like this, all soft and concerned, because she's not even certain that something's wrong with Brittany.

She's about to start freaking out again when she hears the dancer's velvety voice faintly crack. "_How do you know something's wrong?_"

Well, shit.

Shit, shit, shit. "I just… I don't know. It's stupid." Great, now she's self-conscious.

"_Tell me?_"

Yeah, time to make a fool of herself. "I—" She closes her eyes and swallows. She can feel her heart thumping in her ears. She talks too fast, out from embarassment. "I just imagine you as this bubble of sunshine and rainbows and all that, you know? But these past days you've been, like… sad? Plus, you told me you weren't okay and—"

The first time Santana hears Brittany laugh, her heart skips a beat. Time freezes. She's not sure she's heard anything as angelical and, yeah, _beautiful_ as the girl's giggles. And this is coming from someone who doesn't do giggles except when she's drunk because she believes they are absolutely lame. But right in this moment, the Latina is like… Like having an epiphany. As if making the dancer laugh was her only purpose in life all along and she's realized it just now.

Well, that's deep.

(And creepy as fuck, Lopez. Get your shit together.)

Now Santana's laughing, too, her initial uneasiness long forgotten. "Don't laugh at me! I told you it was stupid."

"_Sorry, but a_ bubble of sunshine and rainbows_? Oh my God!_"

"Shut up! You are mean." The Latina pouts, not realizing that Brittany can't see her.

"_And you are a goofball!_"

Laughter bubbles again within the girls until Santana is clutching her stomach because, well, it fucking hurts.

(She's made Brittany laugh.)

**IV**

"So, are you going to tell me what's wrong?" The lawyer asks moments later.

"_I—_"

Panic, panic, panic. "I mean, you don't have to. It's just that I thought—well, I thought that it would be pretty cool if you could talk to somebody when something's bothering you, you know? Not that I think you don't have friends to talk to, it's just that—I don't know. But, um, it's fine if you are not comfortable enough to tell me, I mean, I'm not going to be mad—"

"_Santana._"

"—if you don't because I have no right to ask you—"

"_Santana?_"

"—but I just thought it would be nice. You know?"

A pause. And then, "_Are you finished?_"

"Yeah." The Latina's voice is sheepish now. "Sorry, just got a little carried away."

"_You are cute._" Thud, thud. Santana doesn't think she remembers how to breathe. "_I don't mind telling you, it's just… It's difficult._"

"It's okay, B. Take your time."

**V**

The line's been quiet for a whole minute now, and Santana is about to tell Brittany that it's fine and she doesn't need to explain—it's already one o'clock in the morning, after all—but then she hears a heavy sigh.

"_My little sister is ill. She has leukemia._" Pause. "_She'll have a bone marrow transplant next month but this week's been tough, that's all. I'm_ _just_…" The blonde falters. "You_ know, she's only 9 years old. God, she's a child. It's not fair._"

The Latina holds her breath. And then, "I'm so sorry, Britt."

Santana knows the dancer is crying now. "_Sometimes I wish I was the sick one._"

She frowns. The sole thought makes the Latina cringe. "Hey, don't say that."

"_But it's true. Bree doesn't deserve it._"

"Neither do you. Come on, tell me about her."

**VI**

"_And then she threw her mac and cheese at dad! It was hilarious!_"

Santana literally can't stop smiling—she believes that she has actually cheered the dancer up. And she feels fucking awesome.

She can picture Brittany's face lighting up as she tells silly stories about her sister.

(She's making Brittany laugh!)

And what's this the Latina is feeling? Oh, yeah: contentment. She's sure she could listen to the dancer talk for ten hours straight without getting bored.

Also, she's learnt a bunch of things about the dancer's family: 1) her parents are the eternal-super-duper-in-love couple; 2) her mother's name is Bonnie and her father's is Benjamin; 3) they seem to have a weird fetish with the letter B; 4) Bree is a replica of her older sister; 5) they own a cat whose name is Lord Tubbington—thank God they didn't name it Bord Bubbington, or something.

That's progress, she believes.

(Self high-five.)

**VII**

"Britt."

"_Hmm._"

"Britt?"

"_Hi._"

Santana giggles—yes, she freaking does _that_ now. "You sound tired. You should try to sleep now. It's three in the morning."

"_Oh._"

"Yeah. Come on. We'll talk soon."

"_Tomorrow?_"

"Okay, Britt, tomorrow." She breathes. "Good night."

"_San?_"

"Yeah?"

"_Thank you._"

She smiles. "Anytime."

When Santana can hear soft snores on the other end of the line, she ends the call, a goofy smile plastered on her face.

What? Brittany seems to have this effect on her.

Thank God she doesn't need to be at the firm on Mondays; Quinn sure as hell would've noticed the Latina's giddy state.

She hopes tomorrow comes soon.

(Even though, technically, it's already arrived.)

**VIII**

She wakes up late.

Has she ever told you that she hates Mondays? Because she does. She really, really does.

(On a Monday, her parents told her that they wanted a divorce. On a Monday, her father died from a heart attack. On a Monday, her mother kicked her out.)

But not today.

Today, Santana gets out of her apartment as soon as she is decent and goes grocery shopping. It's probably a smart move to stop having her diet based on cup noodles.

Today, she can't stop smiling. People stare at her on the street. Damn New Yorkers. They probably think she's high as a kite. Although she might as well be.

High on Brittany, that is.

**IX**

When Santana returns home and checks her e-mail, she remembers why she absolutely despises Mondays. In her inbox, there's a message from an unknown address. She clicks on it.

She holds her breath.

Turns out, after eight long years, Maribel Lopez has found her and, apparently, wants to meet her to _set aside their differences_._  
><em>

Fucking great.

(She downs half a bottle of wine.)

(She doesn't hear her phone buzzing later on.)

* * *

><p><strong>AN 3: **Oh, well. So much for a happy chapter. What do you think Santana will do? Decisions, decisions. _But wait._ If she goes back to Lima... does it mean she will finally meet one gorgeous dancer? Uh oh.

**A/N 4: **I'm having a total meltdown over Brittana's wedding. We made it! Group hug?


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N 1: **Hi there. Yay for longer chapters! Consider this my Christmas' gift for y'all. As always, thank you for the amazing reviews, follows and favorites. Happy holidays!

**Rating: **M for swearing and future sexy times.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Glee, but my mom still thinks I'm pretty cool.

All mistakes are my own.

* * *

><p><strong>I<strong>

Santana Lopez is a lot of things.

Right now, she's a mess.

She thinks she's still drunk, and it's three in the morning, on a Tuesday—and today, instead of sleeping, she can't stop crying.

(Turns out, wine doesn't do the trick anymore.)

As she tosses and turns in bed, Santana thinks.

She thinks about her mom—Maribel, because she's not entirely sure she can still call her _mom_.

She remembers everything: she still can hear her parents' arguments and every insult; she can recall the day they told her they wanted a divorce, and how things seemed to be better when they weren't together, and how mistaken she was; how, when her father died, Maribel didn't even show up at the funeral and instead she got so drunk she passed out once she was home; Santana still remembers the fear, and the hopelessness, and how she used to spend more nights at Quinn's than at home—because it wasn't home anymore, if it ever was—until staying at the Fabray's was her only option because Maribel kicked her out.

And Santana ponders.

Because she also has cheerful memories, like Christmases at Abuela's, when they gathered around the table, and there were at least thirty people, and the music was loud, and the food was good, and her mother wasn't a fuck up yet, and her father was caring, and Santana was so, so happy.

That was a long time ago, though.

(She's been so lonely these past eight years.)

It dawns on her right then that nobody in her family loves her—because what is there to love anyway, right? She's just _her_. But still, it hurts, and now it seems like Maribel wants to make amends. She's trying, Santana thinks, and that's kind of enough; it's all she's ever wanted—_craved_, even.

(To be worth it.)

**II**

At a quarter to four in the morning, she finds herself calling Quinn.

(She sees a missed call from Brittany but ignores it.)

A groggy voice picks up. "_Santana?_" Some shuffling. "_What time is it? What the fuck?_"

The Latina opens her mouth in an attempt to answer, or apologize, because it's fucking late—or early—and tomorrow they have to go to the firm—yes, she does, too, because it's Tuesday—and she's so stupid, but suddenly she starts sobbing and she can't seem to remember how to breathe.

Again, "_Santana, what's wrong?_"

"I—I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry."

"_I'll be there in ten minutes, okay? Just—stay on the phone with me, please?_"

And Santana nods, even though her best friend can't see her, because it's the only thing she can do.

**III**

Ten minutes pass in a blur.

Suddenly she's engulfed in Quinn's arms, and she rocks them back and forth while she rubs circles on Santana's back until her sobs begin to subside.

"Honey, what happened?" The blonde whispers.

The Latina tightens her embrace and closes her eyes. "Maribel contacted me." Silence. "She wants to meet."

A bitter laugh. "That bitch." Then, a pause. She feels Quinn stiffening. "Santana, you are not considering going to Ohio, are you?"

"I—I don't know."

The blonde stops embracing Santana and gets up from the bed. The hurt look on her best friend's face speaks louder than words. "I can't fucking believe this! You are going to forgive her after everything that you've been through because of her? Are you, like, a masochist or something?"

"What the hell, Quinn?" The Latina frowns. How can Quinn not understand this? She didn't mean to yell, but... "I'm not saying I'm going to forgive her, for fuck's sake! I know that I'm messed up because of her, okay? I know. But she's _trying_."

Quinn scoffs. "Right, until she stops trying _again_."

Santana clenches her jaw. Shit, that hurt. "Look, I don't expect you to understand, and it's fine, but I, for one, would like to actually be loved by someone in my family. You don't get to be such a fucking bitch."

"Of course I get to be a fucking bitch, Santana. _I_ am your family! My mother and I are."

The Latina shuts up. She can't deny that, she's not a hypocrite. Judy and Quinn took care of her when nobody else did—they still do.

Maybe it's not fair to them. Maybe she's being selfish.

Santana sighs. Her eyes soften. "I know." Then, she thinks that her best friend isn't mad at her—she's just hurt, and, well, the brunette can't blame her. The blonde feels betrayed, somehow. "Quinn, look at me." She gets up and puts her hand on Quinn's shoulder, coaxing her to look up from the floor. "I'm not going to forgive her just yet. I just… I want closure, I think. I need to hear Maribel out and maybe… I don't know, maybe she's changed. But you are my family, Quinn, always will be. Okay?"

The blonde wipes her tears and nods, hugging Santana once again. "I'm sorry. I get it, I do. I was just being a bitch."

"It's okay. I'm not going to go all Lima Heights on your ass because it's almost five in the morning and I feel like shit."

Quinn's laugh sounds muffled because her face is still pressed on Santana's shoulder. "Yeah, you kinda look like shit, too."

"Rude."

"I love you, S."

"Love you, too. Now shut up, I needs my beauty sleep."

Both girls end up sleeping in Santana's bed.

**IV**

When Santana wakes up, it's at eight in the morning and to the smell of pancakes.

(Quinn can't cook to save her life, but her pancakes are fucking awesome.)

She freshens up and goes to the kitchen. Quinn is singing some lame ass song while she cooks. The Latina playfully slaps her butt.

"Morning, sleepyhead. I made you coffee."

Ah, that's music to her ears. "You are my hero, Fabray."

Santana pours some coffee in a mug and drinks, closing her eyes as it burns her tongue. Just how she likes it.

"So," Quinn starts. "When are you going to Lima?"

"I'm not sure." The Latina puts her mug on the counter as the blonde places a plate of pancakes in front of her. "I'd like to get this over with as soon as possible, but I'm kind of busy right now, with Luce and all, you know? It's not like I can just up and leave."

Her friend hums, deep in thought. "Well, you know, if you _really_ want to do this, I can handle Luce's case while you are gone. I mean, it's not a big deal, and she won't mind. You still could help me and I would keep you updated. You have no other major cases, right? The interns sure as hell could take care of the rest of your clients."

"I don't know, Quinn…"

"_Plus_, I really think you need a break. I'm not a fan of Maribel being that close to you, but you could stay at my mom's for a while, relax and then come back. I've already told you a thousand times that you are quite the workaholic and that can't be healthy, San."

She nods. Quinn has a point. "Just… Let me talk to Luce first, okay?"

"Sure. Come on, let's get ready for work."

**V**

"Luce? It's Santana."

"_Oh, hi. Is something wrong? We didn't have a meeting, did we?_"

"No, no, everything's fine. Well, kind of. Um."

"_Yes...?_"

Santana takes a deep breath. "Okay, well. I know this is going to sound super unprofessional but, um, something came up and I have to go back to Lima to take care of it…"

"_Oh._"

"I'm sorry, Luce. I've already talked to Quinn and she'll take your case gladly, so you don't have to worry about it, if you still want us to represent you, that is."

"_Oh! You scared me there for a moment! I thought you were quitting or something._" A breathy laugh. "_Of course I want her to be my lawyer, Santana, I trust both of you._"

"Thank you. Quinn and I will take care of everything, okay? She'll contact you by the end of this week so you can arrange a meeting."

"_Sounds good. Good luck in Lima._"

"Yeah, thanks. Bye."

**VI**

When she gets home, she still feels guilty.

(She doesn't like to leave things unfinished.)

Santana guesses that right now that's kind of necessary, though. At least if she wants to let go of the past and move on with her life. That'd be nice.

Plus, it's not like she's completely dropping Luce's case: she'll still help, somehow.

She books a flight from New York to Dayton, Ohio—which, by the way, is expensive as fuck because it's Spring break and it's last minute—and calls Judy, who agrees to pick her up at the airport on Wednesday evening.

The Latina doesn't buy a return ticket because the mini-break Quinn was talking about earlier doesn't actually sound that bad.

(She doesn't think she'll be staying in Bumfuck, Ohio longer than a week, though.)

**VII**

So everything's already arranged. But her flight is the next day and she has to pack… And if there is something Santana Lopez hates more than packing is—yeah, no. That's probably what she hates the most in the world.

**VIII**

Wednesday morning is uneventful, but Quinn promises to get out of the firm to grab lunch with her and take Santana to the airport.

(Thank God, because the Latina needed to stop thinking about her mother before she'd chicken out and stay in New York.)

"Here we are."

"Yeah. Thanks for the ride, Quinn."

"No problem." The blonde sighs and Santana already knows what's coming. "Call me if something happens, okay? I mean, I'm sure my mom will take care of you but just… Call me or I'll worry too much and I'll have to fly to Lima, too, and I don't know if I could deal with that."

"Sure, I'll call you, like, every two hours to tell you everything's fine, Fabray, no biggie." Santana smiles. "Come on, don't cry. It's not like I'll never come back."

Quinn sniffles. "I know, I'm just worried. I don't want you to get hurt."

"I won't. And if I do, I'll personally buy you a ticket so you can go to Ohio and kick my mother's ass." Quinn laughs and the Latina kisses her forehead. "I'll call you when I land."

**IX**

Santana is _kind of_ afraid of heights—not that she'll ever admit that to anybody—, so being on a plane is not really helping calm her anxiety.

(That bawling baby isn't, either.)

The flight attendant is cute, though.

**X**

When she lands, Judy is waiting for her with the biggest smile she's ever seen. She hadn't seen her since Christmas but it already felt like years.

"Santana!"

"Hi, Judy." She hugs the older woman. "Thanks for picking me up."

"Nonsense. I've missed you so much! How are you, honey?"

"I'm great, just, you know, kind of stressed with work." She lies. "Quinn thought I needed a break, so here I am." The Latina shrugs.

"Well, you sure as hell will relax in Lima."

"I hope so."

(She knows she won't.)

**XI**

The ride from Dayton to Lima is filled with conversation. Santana tells Judy about the firm, and brunches with Quinn, and her ex-girlfriend, and Luce; Judy tells the Latina about church and the last gossip in town. Lame, yeah—but she's kind of missed it.

When they get to the Fabray's household, Santana can't help but smile.

(This is home.)

She calls Quinn when she's all settled in her old room and she's finished unpacking, which ends up with her best friend crying _again_. Seriously, Fabray is such a loser.

Santana helps Judy cook dinner, and for a moment she forgets the actual reason why she is in Lima and just enjoys the company. She has so many memories here.

They eat in silence, until, "Oh, you remember Noah, right?"

"Puck? What about him?"

"I ran into him the other day at the supermarket. Apparently he's a bartender at Joey's. He's such a nice guy."

The brunette could use a lot of adjectives to describe Noah Puckerman, but _nice_? Yeah, no. Puck was loud, cocky and, well, such a boy—he was cool, though; he was her best friend back in high school, aside from Quinn. The three of them run McKinley. When they graduated and left Lima, though, he went MIA. Last Santana heard of him, he was trying to join the army.

"Really? Maybe I'll go see him later. I was thinking about going for a walk anyway."

"Well, you do that. I'm going to bed now. Long day."

Judy kisses her forehead and disappears into the hallway.

**XII**

Santana guesses that Lima, Ohio is a place you despise while you are living in it, but kind of miss when you finally get the fuck out of here.

As she walks along the familiar streets, she reminisces her teenage years—which seemed hell years ago—and smiles. She's fucking smiling and nobody looks at her funny—mainly because there's no one. Oh, well.

Santana's not used to this, the silence, at nine o'clock.

(She really hopes Puck has somebody to bartend. Otherwise, it would be very sad. Hilarious as fuck, though.)

(Maybe she can convince him to move to New York.)

(Nah.)

Joey's is a quite famous place in Lima: Quinn and Santana often came here on Friday nights. Once a month, it was karaoke night, which was super lame, but whatever. They nailed every performance and they got free drinks.

(Nobody knew they were underage.)

The place is not packed, but there are at least twenty people drinking and, well, talking _really _loud. Puck is sweating like a pig—gross—and flirting with a redhead. Figures. Some things never change, Santana supposes. She takes a seat at the bar.

The Latina smirks. "I'm glad to see the Puckasaurus still has some game left."

Puck looks startled for a second and doesn't know where to look at, but then he finds the source of the voice. He smiles, surprised.

"Lopez?" He dismisses the redhead—kind of rude—and stays in place, still disbelieving.

"Well? Are you going to buy me a drink or wha—" The next she knows, she's been engulfed by strong arms and a not so pleasant smell. "Gross, Noah."

"What are you doing here? It's been years! Is Quinn here, too?"

"Nope, I'm on my own. Why? Am I not enough?" She pouts, but it's immediately followed by a smirk. "I needed a break from the city, so I'm staying at the Fabray's for a while." She shrugs.

"A break?" He eyes her suspiciously. Yeah, she's never been able to lie to Puck—he sees right through her, maybe because they are so alike. And, well, because she doesn't simply do _breaks_. But she's not going to spill the beans just now: he might talk her out of her plan and kill Maribel in the process. And she just wants a free Sex on the Beach.

"Yep."

"_Right_… So, how's New York treating my favorite ladies? Oh, sorry. What can I get you?"

(Puck has just dropped something even though he wants to know _and_ he has apologized for being a terrible bartender. Maybe he's nice, after all.)

**XIII**

"So, is there a lady waiting for you back home?"

"Nah. I've been single for a while. Work has me busy."

"Yeah, so what you are saying is that you've been through a bad break-up and now you are afraid of relationships."

"Shut up, Puck."

He smirks. "You are such a pussy, Lopez."

**XIV**

The conversation with Puck—and the alcohol, mainly—have her thinking about love and relationships and commitment issues and ex-girlfriends who cheat.

And _Brittany_.

Crap. She promised Legs they would talk, like, yesterday. And she called but Santana was in the middle of a breakdown and ignored the missed call like the little piece of shit she is. Oh, well. Another failure, no biggie.

"Yo, Sam! You are late!" Puck's voice kind of fucking startles Santana, who was deep in thought. Who is Sam? Fuck. Brittany knew a Sam, too.

She needs to stop drinking.

"Sorry, Puck. I had to take B's sister to the hospital." Oh.

"Shit, is she okay?"

"She fainted. There was nobody home but Britt and she has no car, so…" _Oh_.

Brittany is from Lima.

Brittany has a sick sister.

Oh God.

Santana _is_ in Lima.

"It's cool, bro. Joey is not here anyway. I won't tell him, no worries."

"Thanks, man." For the first time since Puck and the guy, Sam, started talking, Santana feels curious eyes on her. Sam is, like, super blonde. And his lips are _huge_. "And who's this pretty lady?"

The Latina awkwardly waves. "Santana."

"Santana… I've heard that name somewhere." Her heart skips a beat. Maybe Brittany has talked about her? She smiles dreamily. Fuck, she's drunk. "Are you from Lima?"

"Born and raised. Got the hell outta here as soon as I could."

He smiles so big. Seriously, it has to hurt. Those lips, Jesus.

Noah interrupts. "_And_ she's gay, bro."

"Oh."

The Latina feels the need to apologize. Why? Beats her. "Sorry 'bout that."

Sam smiles again. "It's cool, I'm used to hot chicks being gay. Oh! You should meet Brittany. You two would be totally hot together."

They would, indeed.

(Santana can't stop smiling.)

**XV**

Puck takes her home even though she's not as drunk as she was earlier. Turns out, he's a gentleman now. She thanks him for the ride and kisses him on the cheek, and he tells her to have a good night because they're grown-ups now and so, _so_ polite. That's what maturity does to people.

When she gets to the threshold, Puck yells. "Lopez!" Well, here it comes: a very inappropriate comment in 3, 2, 1... "Tell Quinn to visit. She has free passage to the Puckasaurus any time!" He wiggles his eyebrows.

Yeah. Grown-ups.

**XVI**

Once in the bed, Santana thinks about Puck, and about Sam. It's funny, because even if Quinn hadn't introduced her to that online dating site, she would've ended up knowing about Brittany's existence, somehow.

That's some fate-y shit right there, man.

Wait. Brittany. She's probably still at the hospital with her sister. Santana is, like, the worst _kind-of-friend_ in the world. Fuck.

_Britt? Are you still at the hospital? Is your sister okay? — Santana_

_Santana! Yes, I am. My sister's fine, don't worry. It was just a scare. — Britt_

_Wait. How do you know about that? — Britt_

Shit.

She shakes her head. Screw everything. She's gonna call her.

"_San?_"

Santana smiles at the nickname. "Hey, B. Are you okay?"

"_Kinda… Just a little freaked out about you knowing about what happened…_"

The Latina laughs. "Yeah, about that. I kind of met Sam today."

"_Sam?_"

"Yeah. Even though I'm going to start calling him Trouty Mouth. Seriously, those lips can't be normal."

"_Sam is in New York? But… He took me and my sister to the hospital. There's no way he could've made it there. Unless he's, like, a superhero. That would explain his weird obsession with Marvel._"

"No, Britt." Santana laughs again, because how can you not? The blonde is so adorable. "I'm in Lima."

"_What?!_"

"I'm in Lima?"

"_Oh my God! Why didn't you tell me?_"

"Well, it was kind of unexpected… It's a long story." The brunette coughs awkwardly. "I got here in the evening. I was busy yesterday, sorry about not picking up. Anyway, my best friend's mom told me that Puck, an old friend, was bartending at Joey's, so I went there and, like, an hour later, Sam burst through the door all flustered and told him about your sister. Well, I kind of deduced it was your sister he was talking about—"

"_So, like, we can meet?_"

Santana freezes. "Meet? Like… Like, _you_ want to meet _me_?"

The dancer giggles. "_Of course I want to, silly!_"

"Oh, yeah," Awkward. Stinky panic sweat under her boobs. "I mean, sure, why not. When?"

"_Now? I mean, I know I'm at the hospital and I will probably spend the night here, but I'm kind of lonely and anxious about Bree and I could totally use some company. We could grab a coffee at the cafeteria and—oh, never mind, it's, like, super late._" Brittany sighs. "_Maybe another day? Tomorrow?_"

Honestly, _maybe another day_ sounds awesome, because the Latina doesn't do well with unexpected situations—she just _needs_ to be ready, dammit—but she's just heard _lonely_ and _anxious_ and _could use some company_ and she can picture Brittany being a sad little panda—her words, not Santana's—and that's something she just can't ignore.

"Are you at the Lima Memorial?"

"_Yeah._"

"Give me fifteen minutes."

And just like that, she ends the call, puts on a fluffy sweater and comfy jeans, and she's out the door. Again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN 2: **Cliffhangers are my thang, yo.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N 1: **Hi there. I felt kind of bad about last chapter's cliffhanger, so... Here you are: an early update, wooho! Again, thank you for the amazing reviews, follows and favorites. You are awesome!

**A/N 2: **I think you'll like this chapter. Brittana is so on!

**Rating: **M for swearing and future sexy times.

**Disclaimer: **I know what you're thinking, and no, I don't own Glee.

All mistakes are my own.

* * *

><p><strong>I<strong>

Santana Lopez is a lot of things.

Right now, she's fucking euphoric.

(Apart from nervous as hell, that is.)

She's about to meet Angel face! Brittany is real—isn't that great? Santana is, like, _super_ glad that she's not been catfished or something. That would suck big time.

She's halfway to the hospital when she thinks that maybe it would be wise to leave Judy a note. And, come to think of it, Santana could _really_ use a vehicle—she might need to take Brittany and her sister home.

(Or is it too much too soon? Maybe Trouty already plans to pick them up… Or maybe it turns out that they hate each other! Oh God.)

(It's not like she's making excuses not to go, though. Definitely not.)

Anyway—she goes back.

_Judy,_

_I'm with a friend. Can I borrow your car? I hope you say yes because your keys are already in my purse. Call me if you need it in the morning and I'm not home yet. See you tomorrow!_

_Santana._

(Okay, that's settled. There's no going back now, Lopez. Deep breaths.)

She makes her way to the hospital with some 60s' song blasting on the radio—which isn't necessarily bad, but, you know, she needs some motivation right now. This might be a life-changing moment right here, for fuck's sake. They could play _Eye of the Tiger_ or something. God knows she's probably the only listener, anyway.

When Santana parks Judy's SUV, she needs a moment just to think about what she's doing and to freaking breathe. This is crazy. Plus, she doesn't like hospitals at all.

Then again, her _kind-of-friend_ wanted to meet and the dancer might be sad… The craziness is okay, right? _Right_? Yeah.

Yeah.

**II**

No, wait. She's freaking out. She needs reassurance.

Quinn.

"_Santana! Is something wrong? Do I have to kick someone's ass? Hold on, I'm turning on the computer, I'm going to book a flight and—_"

"Fabray, calm down. Jeez." The Latina huffs. "Nothing's wrong."

"_So why the hell are you calling at,_" A pause, "_H__alf past one in the freaking morning? I was sleeping!_"

"Quinn, would you please shut up? Please." She whines. When Santana is positive her friend is listening, she starts. "Okay, so do you remember Brittany?"

"_I mean, her career's kind of over but she's, like, a legend in the music industry, so…_"

The brunette rolls her eyes. "You are exhausting as hell, oh my God." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Not Britney! _Brittany_. From the online dating website you made me join?"

"_Oh! The one you cried over when you were drunk?_" Quinn giggles. "_Yeah, I do._"

"I didn't cry over her…"

"_Yeah, you keep telling yourself that._"

"Whatever." She might be blushing. A little. "Okay, so she's from Lima and I'm kind of meeting her."

"_What?!_" Santana has to put some distance between her ear and the phone because, seriously, a squealing Quinn is something she can't do right now. "_When?_"

"In a few minutes, actually."

"_What?!_" Fuck. She's going to become deaf tonight. "_So you are freaking out right now and that's why you are calling, right?_" Quinn laughs.

"Seriously, why are we friends? You are a pain in the ass."

"_You love me, though._" Santana scoffs. "_Okay, sorry, sorry. I'm listening._"

"I'm just nervous, okay? I mean, I know we met on a dating site, but we are not necessarily supposed to flirt, right? What if she doesn't like me like that? Or what if I don't like her like that?"

"_Okay, S, I love you but you think too much._" True that. "_You are meeting a friend, okay? It's not like you are marrying her or anything._" Santana rolls her eyes. She knows that. "_Look, just talk to her as if she was me._"

"Gross."

"_Shut up. Anyway, who the fuck goes out on a date this late?_"

"It's not a date." She shivers. A first date at the hospital would be creepy as fuck. "I'm just… Look, it's a long story." She hears Quinn huffing. "I'll call you tomorrow. And thank you. That was not your best advice, but whatever."

"_You are welcome, I think. Now go get your girl._" The blonde singsongs.

"Oh, fuck you." She hears her best friend laugh but she hangs up before Quinn can tease her any longer.

When Santana goes back to New York she's so going to kill her.

**III**

Still thinking about her conversation with Quinn, she enters the grey building. _Just talk to her like a friend_. It's not that difficult, right? She can do friends. She's great with friends. Kind of.

(God, she's an awful friend.)

Her first stop is the cafeteria, because even though it was Brittany's suggestion, she's not sure it would be a great idea to leave her sister alone. As soon as she buys two coffees to go that look like very gross, brown water—definitely not Starbucks, but oh, well—, she feels her phone buzzing.

Britt has just texted—she is in room 622.

Because her father used to work here, Santana doesn't need directions—she just looks for the oncology sign and starts climbing the never-ending stairs as soon as she finds it.

(She seriously needs to start going to the gym.)

The Latina reaches a long, creepy-as-hell hall. She hopes _that_ sound is an echo of her steps, otherwise she's watched enough horror movies to know that a murderer's following her and—_no_.

Fuck. She really doesn't like hospitals.

_615_…

_618_…

_621_…

Okay. Moment of truth.

**IV**

Santana peeps over the 622 door's window and, when she sees a flash of golden hair, she hides again. She catches her breath.

_Just treat her like a friend._

**V**

Should she knock on the door or enter right away, though? Not knocking would be rude, right? Plus, she assumes that only _friends_ and family are allowed to do that.

Fuck.

(Santana really hopes that Brittany likes cold coffee.)

**VI**

Fuck Quinn and her pep talks. She's going to get the hell out of this hospital and call Brittany to tell her that she couldn't make it and then she's going to Judy's and Santana's going to sleep because she's had a long, tiring da—

"Are you, like, trying telepathic communication through the wall? Because I did once and it totally doesn't work." Santana jumps when a voice interrupts her thoughts. Not any random voice, though.

"Um," She's so awkward, Jesus Christ. Where are holes on the ground when she needs them? Maybe telepathic communication isn't a bad idea—at least she wouldn't sound so lame. Probably. "He—hi…" Santana shakes her head and looks up to meet baby blue eyes, blonde hair, pink lips and a smile to die for. Her legs feel like jelly and, well, she kind of feels like she's having a heart attack. Ugh. What the hell, Lopez.

"Hi." Brittany keeps smiling, her head tilted. "Is that for me?" A long, pale finger points at the coffee the Latina is holding.

Santana observes, amazed, the dancer's smile and the crinkles that appear in her chin when she speaks, until she realizes that the blonde has talked to her. Mocha orbs widen and she diverts her vision to her hand—which now is sweating pretty badly and it's kind of grossing Santana out.

Clearing her throat and trying to regain some confidence, she talks, her voice raspier than usual. "Oh, yeah. I figured you wouldn't want to leave your sister alone, so I brought you coffee…" She scrunches her nose. "Never mind, though, I don't even know if you like it black. Um. I can go back and buy you something else—hot chocolate?" She's rambling so bad. Quinn is going to laugh so much at her when she tries to explain this.

The Latina finally looks up again, expecting the worst…

(Like she always does.)

…but Brittany's smile is still intact. She's amused, though—Santana can see it in her catlike eyes.

This is so embarrassing.

"Black is okay, Santana, I'm not racist." Oh, okay. Well… "I really want to hug you, though." Brittany grins while she opens her arms and slowly closes the distance between them.

"Oh."

The hug is awkward because Santana is still holding the two coffees for dear life—it's a miracle she's not spilled the scalding liquid on the dancer. Now _that_ would be embarrassing. She would probably leave the country or something.

Anyway, the hug is awkward, but feels so good. So, _so_ good. Santana feels herself relax in the embrace. Brittany smells like vanilla and she's warm and they fit perfectly and what the fuck is happening?

(Is it hot in here or what?)

"It's so great to see you!" Brittany leans back first, with a mega-watt smile. Santana just stares in awe. Seriously, she can't do anything else. She's fucking frozen on the spot. The dancer scans brown eyes curiously, slightly worried. "Are you okay?"

The Latina furrows her brows. "Yeah, totally." She shakes her head—again—and smiles. "It's great to see you, too, Britt."

Blue eyes sparkle. "I like it when you call me Britt." A soft smile. Fuck. The Latina blushes.

And then they just stare at each other for what it feels like years.

(Santana doesn't do eye contact, dammit!)

"Anyway," The brunette breaks the weird atmosphere. "Here." She hands Brittany the coffee. "It's probably cold already." She says, apologetically.

Brittany chuckles. "It's okay." And the Latina believes her. "Do you want to come in? I think Bree's just woken up."

Does she want to come in? Because, really, she doesn't do well with kids. Kids hate her. But that smile… "Sure." Santana nods.

She's so screwed.

**VII**

Brittany wasn't exaggerating when she told Santana that Bree was the spitting image of her. Seriously, those genes.

"Hey, baby." Brittany coos. "How are you feeling?" She puts her hand on the little girl's forehead. Santana is quiet behind the taller girl, her gaze focused on the floor.

(She kind of feels like she's intruding.)

"M'okay, Britty." The dancer smiles. "Hi."

It takes Santana a few moments, but then she realizes that Bree has actually talked to her. She waves and tries to smile, but she thinks it looks more like a grimace. "Hello."

Brittany looks at the Latina, smile never wavering. "Bree, this is my friend Santana." _My friend_,_ my friend_,_ my friend_.

"You are Santana?"

The brunette nods. "The one and only." Brittany chuckles and shakes her head, and the little girl smiles so big, but suddenly it turns into a mischievous smirk.

"Brittany can't shut up about you!"

Santana turns to look at Brittany, who's blushing furiously, with narrowed eyes. "Is that right?" The dancer just stares wide eyed at her sister.

Bree nods. "Totally! Yesterday, she whined and pouted _for hours_ because you didn't call ba—"

"I think that's enough!" Brittany cuts her off, shaking her head at her sister. Oh, this is priceless. Santana definitely loves this kid _and_ teasing the crap out of the older sister.

"But Britty! You were _so_ sad!" The taller blonde blushes even more while the brunette stares at Bree, amused as hell.

"Aw," Santana starts, quirking her mouth. "I'm sorry, B." She winks at Bree, who giggles.

Brittany shakes her head and looks at the floor, her face still red. But then she looks up at the Latina and pouts. And, seriously, _that pout_. "You are mean."

Santana actually thinks that she's hurt Brittany's feelings _or something_ and glances helplessly at Bree, who in turn looks at her. The Latina opens and closes her mouth, trying to find something to say, but suddenly both sisters burst out laughing.

The brunette furrows her brows, annoyed. She doesn't like being made fun of.

"That was the best pout, Britty!"

"Right? I'm, like, a genius pouter." Brittany gently high-fives her sister. "Gotcha, San." She winks at the lawyer.

Santana crosses her arms. "That wasn't funny."

"Yes, it was!" The two blondes giggle simultaneously.

(The Latina smiles at the adorableness.)

**VIII**

"How's my favorite girl?" A blonde woman who _definitely_ can pull off scrubs enters the room.

(She likes blondes, okay?)

"Holly!" Bree exclaims, evidently excited.

"Hello, Bumblebree." The little girl scrunches her nose. Seriously, worst nickname ever. _Bumblebree_. Santana scoffs mentally. She finds it kind of smart, though. "Hot stuff." The woman, Holly, nods, winking at Brittany, who waves in return. "And…" She trails off, smirking at Santana. "Who's Exotic Princess?"

The Latina is a little taken aback by the lack of filter, but she's not going to judge the bluntness. It's not like she's cautious with her words, either. "Santana." She says, suddenly a little shy.

"Santana." Holly repeats slowly, as if she's trying the name on her tongue. "Pretty name for a pretty face." The Latina thinks she blushes. What? The woman is hot.

Brittany suddenly clears her throat and seems to have a silent conversation with the doctor. Oh, well. Bree watches, curious, the scene unfolding in front of her and Santana tries, without any luck, to figure what's going on.

Holly grins, winks once again at Brittany, who looks satisfied, and smirks at Santana. "Anyway, girls," She starts, "Just swinging by to say that everything's fine with little Bree, but it would probably be wise to stay the night, just in case." The doctor looks at Brittany. "It's up to you, though."

The dancer hesitates. "Yeah, we are going to stay. Is that okay, Bree?"

The little girl nods.

"Okay, ladies. Give me a holler if ya need me!"

"Thanks, Holly."

Santana is the first one to talk as soon as the woman leaves the room. "Well, that was weird."

Brittany chuckles and rolls her eyes playfully. "She's just Holly. Don't mind her."

"She was totally flirting with San!" Bree giggles. The Latina just grins at the nickname.

"What can I say? Some ladies just can't resist the Lopez charm." She wiggles her eyebrows at Bree, who just looks grossed out.

Brittany laughs and nudges Santana. "True that." She winks at the brunette.

(The Latina thinks her legs have stopped working.)

**IX**

The three girls have been talking for an hour straight when Bree starts to doze off.

"She's always so tired." Brittany says, sadness written all over her face. She glances at Santana. "I wish you could've met her when she wasn't sick."

"Me, too." Santana whispers, sincerely. "She's amazing, Britt." The blonde scans brown eyes, searching for an ounce of dishonesty in the Latina's statement. There isn't.

"She really is." The dancer breathes out, still staring at the brunette.

Santana smiles.

**X**

"So, where are your parents?" Santana asks, because it seems weird, right? But, "I didn't mean to pry, sorry."

"It's okay." Brittany murmurs—for the hundredth time tonight, maybe?—as she smiles softly. "My dad's been taking night shifts since Bree got sick. Hospital bills are really expensive, so he works extra hours. Some days he doesn't come home at all." She frowns. "He's a cop." The blonde says, proudly. "And my mom is visiting my grandparents in Florida. It's their anniversary." She beams. "We couldn't make it this year for obvious reasons, so we agreed on my mom going there alone." The blonde shrugs.

Santana scratches her neck. "Well, if you need something, anything, I'll be here for a few days. Just call and I'll be there." She lifts her shoulder. "If you want, I mean."

Brittany just looks at her like she's the most perfect person in the world. Her eyes sparkle so, _so_ bright. The Latina is suddenly very uncomfortable and looks down, her cheeks flushed. Why does she always have to embarrass herself?

"Thank you, Santana. That means a lot."

"You are welcome."

**XI**

The dancer falls asleep in the armchair of the hospital's room at four in the morning. Santana covers her with a blanket and, for a moment, just stares. She studies carefully Brittany's features: her golden hair, her eyebrows, her eyes, her nose, the subtle pout her lips have formed; the peace that radiates from her body.

She really is beautiful.

But Santana feels like a weirdo and stops staring, looking everywhere to make sure that no one has seen her creeping on her _friend_. All clear.

She smiles to herself.

(It feels so good to call her friend.)

Since she's not going to be able to sleep, no matter that she's completely exhausted—what? Hospitals give her a bad vibe, don't judge—, Santana figures that she might as well grab another coffee from the cafeteria, even though it's gross as fuck.

There are only two more people when she gets there. She pays no mind to them and goes straight to the coffee machine.

She's going to need the caffeine.

**XII**

She's been lost in her own thoughts for a long time, Santana thinks.

At half past five in the morning, her phone buzzes.

_Where are you? — Britt_

She doesn't answer. Instead, she grabs a tray and starts putting the breakfast the cafeteria serves on it. There are pancakes and orange juice. That will do, she guesses.

She's not sure she can take food from the cafeteria to Bree's room, but she's going to take the risk. The Latina just has to avoid all the medical staff she finds in her way up there. Piece of cake with her mad sneaky skills.

(Santana's adventurous like that.)

She reaches the room unseen, like the boss she is. Brittany is frowning at her phone with the cutest pout when she knocks, making her way in.

"Hi." The Latina smiles, closing the door with her foot. "I thought you'd like breakfast." She lifts up the tray. "I figured everybody likes pancakes." Santana shrugs, placing the tray on the small coffee table in front of the dancer.

Brittany looks relieved and sighs, meeting brown irises. "You didn't have to do that." Santana just waves her off, plopping down on the armchair next to the one the dancer's sitting on. "Thank you."

They stare at each other, and then. "You are welcome." Santana smiles. "I'm pretty sure I wasn't allowed to bring you food, though." She chuckles.

The blonde laughs. "Yeah, I don't think you were." Her blue eyes are seriously doing things to Santana. Ugh. "I thought you left." Brittany purses her lips.

"Why would I do that?" The Latina furrows her brows.

The dancer shrugs. "I dunno." She mumbles, slowly chewing the pancakes and scrunching her nose.

"Oh." Santana says, remembering something. "Sorry, I brought syrup, too." She hands her the bottle. Brittany looks at her curiously. "I may or may not have stolen that from the cafeteria's kitchen."

The blonde just shakes her head in amusement and pours a hell of a lot of syrup on her pancakes. She thanks Santana with a mouthful of food.

(It's kind of cute.)

**XIII**

At seven, a nurse brings Bree and Brittany breakfast. Oops. Santana just winks at the taller blonde, which earns her one of those perfect smiles.

(The Latina hands the empty tray Brittany used earlier to the nurse and shrugs when the woman eyes her suspiciously.)

The dancer wakes her sister up gently stroking golden, weak locks. "Honey, come on, wake up. You have to eat." She whispers.

Bree stirs in her sleep and mumbles something, which makes Santana and Brittany grin. Finally, the little girl opens her eyes. "Mornin'." She croaks.

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

"Is Santana gone?"

"Nope. She's right there." Brittany points at the brunette, who was studying her hands, deep in thought. Santana looks up and smiles at the two sisters.

"Awesome." Bree grins. She doesn't eat much—the Latina figures that's because of the rough cancer treatment. "Can we go now?" The little blonde pouts.

Brittany hesitates. "Sure." She concedes, finally. "Let me text Sam really quick."

Santana interferes. "I have a car. I can take you both home, it's no problem."

"Really?" The blonde asks with a small voice, her tone uncertain.

"Totally." The brunette beams at her. They stare—_again_—at each other. Santana knows the dancer is just making sure that she's not lying, but seriously, their silent conversations are creepy as hell. The Latina feels like Brittany sees right through her, even though they practically have just met.

(She thinks she likes that, though.)

"Okay." Brittany whispers, more to herself than to the lawyer, and nods.

**XIV**

"Now turn left." Brittany guides. "Right there, that's home." Her face lights up. Santana glances at the detached house with the small front yard. It seems cozy—the Latina thinks about how nice it has to be, growing up in a place like that. "Sam's house is opposite to ours. There." She points at another family-sized house and Santana hums, absorbing as fast as possible all the new information she gets from the dancer.

"Britty, I'm tired." Bree mumbles in the backseat, already dozing off again.

"We're here, sweetie." The dancer gives Santana an apologetic smile. "Thank you for the ride, San."

"No problem, B." The Latina grins. "Do you need help carrying Bree?"

"No, I got this." Brittany leans into Santana, still in the car, and kisses her cheek gently, pink lips lingering on tan skin. "Thanks." The brunette can't do anything but stare. The dancer just smiles and murmurs, "Bye."

The Latina stays dumbfounded in place, watching Brittany carry her sister effortlessly. She waits until they have entered their house and then she starts the SUV's engine.

(She's still blushing when she reaches Judy's home.)

**XV**

Judy's still sleeping, Santana guesses, so she tears the note she left last night and goes to her bedroom, more than ready to finally slide into deep slumber.

(She dreams about baby blue eyes.)

* * *

><p><strong>AN 3: **I've decided to tone down the evilness... So no cliffhanger this time.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N 1: **Hi there. What? An update, this soon? Hell yes. And a longer chapter?! _Hell yes_. The holidays are doing things to me. Good things. Thank you for the sweet reviews, follows and favorites. I think I love you.

**A/N 2: **Remember when I said I would tone down the evilness? Well... The plan kind of backfired. Kind of. I think you'll like this chapter, though. So... Yeah. On with the story.

**Rating: **M for swearing and future sexy times.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Glee, but a girl can dream, right?

All mistakes are my own.

* * *

><p><strong>I<strong>

Santana Lopez is a lot of things.

She's beyond exhausted when she wakes up at noon—she's slept _four_ fucking hours. She's too old for this crap.

"Good morning." Judy greets.

The Latina just lets out a grunt, squinting her eyes in the too bright sunlight that creeps through the windows.

"I made you coffee. You better tone down the grumpiness, young lady." The blonde woman scolds. Santana rolls her eyes. Judy just knows her too well. "Late night at Joey's?"

"Nah." Santana says, pouring some coffee in a cup. "Puck gave me a ride here when he finished his shift. I think it was midnight?" She thinks for a moment. "Yeah, midnight." She takes a sip.

"So why do you look like a zombie?" Judy asks, quirking her mouth knowingly.

"Jeez, thanks." The brunette huffs. "I had to meet a friend and I kind of got home, like, four hours ago." She says, a hint of a smile playing at her lips.

"Oh?" The older woman tilts her head and narrows her eyes. "So you had a booty call?"

Santana chokes on her coffee. "_What_?" She yelps, her voice high-pitched.

"I mean… You _had_ to _meet_ a _friend_ that late… _All_ night long… Sounds like a booty call to me." Judy shrugs. Seriously, this woman goes to church practically every day. What the hell?

"Like mother like daughter…" Santana mumbles, not loud enough for the older woman to hear. "No, _Judy_, it wasn't a booty call." _Even though I wouldn't mind_. What? "Brittany was at the hospital and I went to see her."

"Brittany, huh?" Judy smirks. Immediately after, though, a worried expression appears on her face. "Why was she at the hospital?"

"Her sister is sick with cancer and yesterday she fainted." Santana sighs. "I just thought she needed someone to be there for her, you know?"

"That was really nice of you, Santana." The brunette shrugs. "Wait, Brittany? Is Bonnie Pierce her mother?"

"Yeah, her name's Bonnie."

"Oh!" Judy exclaims. "I know her from church. She told me about her daughter… Bree? Yeah, I think that was it." She exhales. "That poor family."

Santana nods. "Mhm. I can't begin to imagine what they're going through." She sighs. "You should've seen the little girl, though. She looked so happy in spite of everything." The brunette's eyes soften when she remembers Bree.

"Well, I'm glad Brittany has someone like you in her life." Judy smiles, her eyes glittering with pride. Santana just waves her off, smiling coyly. "You are like a daughter to me, you know that."

The Latina suddenly feels sick.

"I know."

**II**

Santana is still in the kitchen. She stares into the middle distance for God knows how much time, her eyebrows furrowed, resting her chin on her hand.

Judy is gone—something about a food collection campaign. _You are like a daughter to me_. Her words echo in the lawyer's mind like a broken record.

If Judy knew the real reason why the Latina is here, would she still love her like her own family?

Quinn was so upset at first.

(The brunette doesn't think she can handle more heartbreak.)

Maybe she should just email Maribel back and tell her to go fuck herself? She chuckles bitterly. She fucking _knows_ she should just do that. Santana doesn't believe in second chances, after all. But…

She's so conflicted right now—she can't talk to Quinn, because the blonde hates Maribel's guts. She's biased. Same goes for Puck. And then there's Judy… But Santana is so afraid that she will hurt her feelings.

So, basically, she's fucking screwed.

She just needs a break from worrying so much.

**III**

Santana walks for a long time, and before she knows it, she's in Lima Heights.

It's funny, because people think this is the most dangerous part in town. She still pulls her gangster voice like a boss and scares others to death when she says she's going to go all Lima Heights on their asses—something her Abuela taught her to do—, but, really, houses here are freaking mansions and people are pretentious assholes, just like her parents.

The Latina stands in front of her old house, still not sure about what she's trying to do. She just needs some reassurance, she thinks, because she has no fucking clue of anything anymore.

If only she rang the doorbell…

But.

The blinds are closed—her mother has probably a hangover the size of Texas. Figures.

Santana makes her way back to Judy's.

**IV**

Santana is cooking lunch when her phone buzzes. She wipes her hands on the apron she's wearing—yes, she's _that_ kind of person—and reads the message.

_Have any plans? — Puck_

_Nope. Something in mind? — Santana_

_Movie night at Casa de Puck. Pizza is on me. — Puck_

_I'm in. — Santana_

She texts Judy so the older woman knows she won't be home for dinner.

**V**

It's been just a day since Santana landed and she's already _itching_ for having something to do. She's bored as hell. Fucking Quinn and her fucking persuasion superpowers. She doesn't need a break; she needs to go back to New York.

(She just has to visit Maribel so she can return home for good, really, but...)

At six o'clock, she goes to the supermarket because she's sick of watching TV.

Santana figures that, even though Puck said pizza was on him, she might as well buy some booze. Noah would appreciate that.

(She texts Judy—again—so the woman knows she'll crash at Puckerman's tonight.)

**VI**

Puck lives alone in a shoebox apartment.

Santana spins around the living room, studying his new place carefully. "What about your parents' house?" She asks, because eight years ago, Noah lived near the Fabray's with his folks, Tony and Karen.

The Latina hands him the bottle of tequila she just bought and he speaks as he puts it on the kitchen counter. "When I was drafted, they sold the house and moved to Cali." He shrugs. "I mean, they didn't know I wouldn't even last a whole year in the army." He laughs. The brunette rolls her eyes, amused. Apparently, Puck was accidentally shot in the calf by some loser who didn't know his gun was loaded. He couldn't even finish his training. Yeah, pathetic. "It's cool, though, I love this place."

"Yeah, it's so you."

"I hope that's a good thing, woman." Noah tries to glare.

Santana smirks. "Sure." She says innocently.

Puck huffs, shakes his head and scratches the back of his head. "So, Sam is coming, too. Is that okay?"

Santana shrugs nonchalantly. "He's cool." She ponders. "I mean, his mouth is _huge_ and he could probably swallow a newborn, but…"

Noah roars with laughter. "I'm so telling him you said that!"

"No, you are not!" Santana shoves him playfully. "I have razorblades all over my hair, just a reminder."

He throws his hands up in the air in mock surrender. "Okay, okay." He chuckles.

Just then, the doorbell rings and Puck answers. He buzzes Sam in.

Noah turns around and smirks at Santana, a mischievous glint in his green eyes. "What?" The Latina furrows her brows and crosses her arms, kind of annoyed at her friend.

"Nothing." He whistles. He's _so _up to something.

**VII**

Turns out, it isn't Sam who Puck buzzed in.

Well, it is—but he's not alone.

Brittany is here. And she's wearing skinny jeans and a white shirt under a blue cardigan and her legs are _so_ long and her smile is _so_ beautiful and she's fucking glowing, Santana swears.

_Glowing_.

Her eyes sparkle when she spots Santana, who's already staring right back at her, sitting on the couch. "San!" The blonde waves.

The Latina opens her mouth and tries to convey a greeting but… Nope, not gonna happen. Sam watches both girls with his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, his guppy lips pursed in a tight line.

Puck notices the awestruck look on his friend's face and comes to her rescue. "Hey, Britt." He hugs her. "How's it going?"

Brittany smiles one last time at Santana and then turns to Puck. "Great!" She chirps happily.

Seriously, this girl's enthusiasm.

Noah chuckles and looks back at Santana, mouthing "_Come on_." And then he greets Trouty with a high-five.

(Puck doesn't know she already met Brittany.)

The brunette finally gets up from the couch and grins at Brittany, recovering from her daze. "Hey, B." She hugs her so, so tight, and Santana feels the same she felt yesterday: peace. She breathes the blonde in, not wanting to ever forget her wonderful smell.

(She didn't know she liked vanilla this much.)

When she leans back, Brittany grins. "Hi." She whispers.

Santana ducks her head shyly and glances up again to meet bright baby blue orbs. Brittany is smiling softly at her with her head tilted to the side, curious.

Sam clears his throat behind the dancer. "Hey, Santana." He waves. Santana grins at him, waving back. "You two know each other?" The conversation clearly perks up Puck's interest.

"Um—" Santana starts, unsure.

"Of course we do, Sammy!" Brittany exclaims, excited. "She's Santana." Yeah, Sam already knows that. He narrows his eyes, trying to remember. "From New York?" Still no clue. "_Fierce, femme, phenomenal_?"

Realization dawns on him, it seems. He opens his—very big—mouth, his lips forming an 'O'. And then he smiles so much Santana thinks he's going to suck them all in. Like a black hole, or something. "I knew your name sounded familiar!" And the Latina smirks smugly, now certain that Brittany did in fact talk about her with Sam, judging by the slight blush spreading to the dancer's ears and cheeks.

(The brunette is a little embarrassed, though. _Fierce, femme, phenomenal_. Fucking Quinn, man.)

Puck looks at the brunette in bewilderment, but then he quirks his lips at her and Santana knows she's going to have to explain everything to him sooner rather than later. She scrunches her nose.

Ugh.

**VIII**

They order an extra large pepperoni pizza and, while they wait, they pick what movie they are going to watch.

"We should watch _The Avengers_." Sam says, nodding to himself. "I can't be friends with Santana if she hasn't seen it."

The Latina rolls her eyes. "Jeez, calm down, Trouty." He looks stunned at the new nickname. She hears Puck snickering and Brittany giggling. Oops. "I mean," Santana is not into superheroes, but blue eyes are watching her expectantly and the Latina can't think straight, so… "It's fine by me. Scarlett Johansson is hot." She shrugs.

"Totally." The dancer deadpans. Santana smiles at her and Brittany winks in return.

(Thud, thud, thud.)

"_The Avengers_ it is." Puck says, and Sam looks beyond satisfied with himself. Such a dork.

**IX**

The movie is so lame. Thank God for the pizza, because, seriously, Santana would've fallen asleep a while ago if it wasn't for it.

She also has Brittany pressed against her side—is she always this warm? Oh, God—and, well, let's just say that she's not nearly as focused on _The Avengers_ as she initially predicted she would try to be. She just knows it's lame as fuck.

Sam and Puck are oblivious to Santana's flushed state because they are too busy quoting every freaking line Captain America and Thor say. It would be annoying, really—but Brittany is humming a song, clearly not paying attention to the movie, and occasionally wiggles her butt to the rhythm and Santana just… Well. The cuteness is doing things to her heart. So Sam and Puck are just sort of background.

"_Thor, what's his play?_" Sam impersonates, puffing his chest, his voice low.

"_He has an army, called the Chitauri. They're not of Asgard or any world known. He means to lead them against your people. They will win him the Earth. In return, I suspect, for the Tesseract._" Puck retorts.

Both girls look at each other, amused. The Latina rolls her eyes. Brittany giggles adorably.

And Santana can't help but smile.

**X**

When the movie ends—finally—, Sam looks at Santana with those big puppy eyes full of hope.

And, yeah, the Latina is a bitch on a regular basis, but she really doesn't want to disappoint him. She doesn't want to lie, either, so she just shrugs. "It wasn't bad, I guess."

Trouty lights up and she thinks she's done well enough.

Puck chimes in. "So… Beer and then shots?" He smirks, getting up from the couch and going to the kitchen.

Brittany punches the air. "Yes!" They all laugh at the dancer's antics.

**XI**

They've already chugged four—or five, she's not really counting—beers each, and, well, Santana can definitely hold her liquor, but she's starting to feel dizzy—she doesn't know if it's because of the alcohol or because Brittany is getting closer and closer to her, though.

"This is super boring, man." Puck slurs. "Let's play Never have I ever."

Santana gets up and grabs the tequila and four shot glasses from the kitchen. She plops down on the couch once again.

"Okay," She starts. "You guys know the rules, right?" She looks at Sam and Brittany. They nod fervently. "I'll start." She smirks. "Never have I ever masturbated at someone else's house."

Puck drinks.

"Oh my God, Puck." Santana laughs. "Please tell me you didn't do it at my place. Please." He just wiggles his eyebrows. "You are disgusting!" She pushes him playfully. Brittany giggles and Sam shakes his head, chuckling.

"My turn!" Brittany pipes. "Okay, okay, I've got one." She clears her throat. "Never have I ever had sex in public."

Puck and Santana drink.

"What the hell?" Sam laughs. Brittany just stares at them, mouth agape.

(Her eyes are a darker shade of blue when she glances at the Latina, she thinks.)

Puck shrugs. "It was with Santana, actually." Santana nods. "We totally got it on under the bleachers at McKinley during a football match." He says cockily.

(What? It was in the Dark Ages.)

Brittany and Sam just blink, stunned. "You slept with Puck?" Brittany asks, not in an accusatory tone, but genuinely curious.

"Don't remind me." Santana shivers. Everybody laughs.

"Hey!" Noah pretends that he's offended, putting his hand on his chest. "You liked it!"

"Puck," Santana snorts. "I had to pretend you were that chick, Mack, so I could get off." She chuckles breathily.

"All my life has been a lie." Puck mumbles. "Anyway, my turn." He thinks for a moment, and then, "Never have I ever watched porn with someone else."

Brittany drinks.

(Hot.)

This just keeps getting better.

(They'll run out of tequila sooner than Santana thought, though.)

"Really?" Puck asks. He's totally imagining it. He's gross like that.

"Yup." She says casually. "My first boyfriend didn't turn me on, like, _at all_." She shrugs. "A year later I realized I was gay as a unicorn, so I finally understood why." She chuckles. "Anyway, I convinced him to watch porn with me so I could get worked up and… You know."

Santana coughs awkwardly, trying to erase all the thoughts of Brittany watching porn that have suddenly popped up in her mind; Sam, on the other hand, is listening intently, wide-eyed, disbelieving; and Puck… He's probably going to start drooling any time now.

"Okay…" Sam drags out. "Never have I ever slept with someone within an hour of meeting them." He says, proud of his question.

Santana rolls her eyes. He has no game.

Obviously, Noah, Brittany and the Latina drink.

"Dude, seriously," Puck smirks at the blonde boy. "Have you _ever_ even gotten to second base with a chick?"

Sam blushes.

**XII**

Santana finds out, a while later, that Brittany is a stripper drunk: the blonde has taken off her shirt and cardigan, and she's dancing to an imaginary beat in her lacy pink bra and jeans. But, seriously, the girl is practically giving the brunette a lap dance. There isn't even any music playing, God.

Not cool.

The Latina is genuinely having a hard time keeping her hands to herself.

(Fuck, it's hot as hell.)

(Calm down, Lopez.)

She knows that horny _and_ frustrated is not a good combo to her drunk self—if she doesn't do something, _anything_, she's going to start crying like a little bitch, she's sure about it. Shit. She can't let that happen.

Since she's obviously not going to jump Brittany—even though she wants to, so much—she decides to stop drinking. That's probably a very good idea.

(She's legitimately impressed with her unusual amount of self-restraint, honestly.)

Puck keeps downing shots and is going to pass out any moment now, and Sam is snoring on the couch next to the one Santana's sitting on—the guy is such a lightweight.

It's going to be a long night.

**XIII**

So, Puck has already passed out. He's sleeping like a freaking rock on the floor, a pillow under his shaved head.

That leaves only Brittany and Santana left.

_Great_.

The blonde smiles goofily at her, panting from all the dancing, and sits on the couch, next to the Latina.

"So." Brittany purrs.

"So." The brunette repeats, gulping loudly.

The dancer bites her lip and lets out the cutest giggle. "I really want to thank you for what you did yesterday." She mumbles softly, ducking her head. "I didn't want to be alone." She tucks a strand of hair behind her flushed ear and looks up, blue meeting brown.

(She's so cute, she's so cute, she's so cute.)

"It was nothing, Britt." Santana breathes out. They're too close, seriously. She feels like a freaking sledgehammer is pounding in her chest. And her underboob is sweating, like, a lot.

"It was sweet." _Sweet_. Okay. Wait. Is Brittany…? Oh, God, yes, she is. Her eyes are focused on the Latina's plump lips. And then back to mocha orbs. And then to her lips again. This can't be happening.

Santana feels dizzy.

The brunette keeps staring at the other girl's eyes. And when Brittany starts to lean in, blue orbs darker than usual, the Latina holds her breath.

But…

Wait.

_No_.

She panics.

She can't kiss Brittany.

(She wishes she could.)

She can't kiss her because they've just met, and _yes_, the attraction is there, and _yes_, it could be just a kiss and not mean anything—they are drunk, after all—but Santana sure as hell doesn't feel like this is meaningless. And, honestly, that scares the crap out of her, because, well, she's not so great in the romantic department _and_ she always ends up getting hurt, or worse, hurting the other person in the process. So, no, thank you.

And Brittany is so wonderful—so… _Brittany_—, and the Latina's just so fucked up. She can't drag her into the mess that is her life. She can't let her in.

(If she kisses her, she knows she won't be able to compartmentalize. And she likes to be in control. She _needs_ to be in charge of her emotions.)

(It's a defense mechanism.)

She'll be gone in a few days, anyway.

And then they can keep being friends. Or whatever it is that they are.

(The dancer deserves so much better than her.)

So Santana pulls back, even though she can already feel the blonde's breath merging with her own, and their noses are almost touching, and that pale hand is so warm on the brunette's thigh. "Um—" Really, she has no excuse to stop this. It's not like she can say all she would like to say, so... "I'm gonna…" She trails off, her thumb pointing at something behind her. Brittany keeps looking right into her eyes, asking silent questions, searching for answers the Latina can't give her just yet. "…yeah." She mumbles lamely, finally getting up of the couch and making her way to Puck's bedroom.

She closes the door and releases a breath she didn't know she was holding.

**XIV**

Santana feels so guilty that she can't even sleep. She spends hours lying down in Noah's bed, staring at the ceiling.

There's a knock on the door at three in the morning.

"Santana?" Shit. It's Brittany. She hears the door opening, and then nimble, delicate steps.

(Seriously, does this girl even _walk_ or she just… glides?)

The dancer climbs gingerly into the bed and faces Santana. Maybe if she pretends she's asleep…

"I know you are awake." She murmurs. Fuck.

A pause. And, "How?" Santana cracks an eye open.

Brittany grins and shrugs, her eyes sparkling even though the room is almost pitch-black. "I didn't."

The Latina rolls her eyes, huffing dramatically. Of course she would fall for that. The dancer giggles at her reaction and, really, even if she wanted to, the brunette wouldn't be able to resist that. She's a goner. So she smiles, because there's just nothing else she can possibly do.

"I'm sorry about earlier." Santana mumbles.

"It's okay." Brittany tilts her head. "Do you not like me?"

"What?" The Latina frowns. Can somebody not like her? Seriously. "Of course I do."

"Then why didn't you kiss me?"

"I—" Santana purses her lips. She sighs in defeat. She really doesn't have a valid reason. She's just being _her_. "I'm… complicated, Britt."

"I like complicated."

The Latina shakes her head. "You don't even know me."

"So? Let's get to know each other." She sits cross-legged on the bed and turns on the table lamp resting on the nightstand. _Shit_. She's so beautiful in the dim light. "What's your favorite color?"

A shaky breath. "Red."

"Why?"

Santana shrugs. "I look smokin' in red." Brittany laughs and slaps the Latina's arm playfully. "Hey!" The brunette pouts. "What's yours?"

"I don't have one." The blonde glances down at her hands bashfully. "I think it would be unfair to the other colors if I did." She blushes.

Well, isn't that the most adorable thing you've ever heard? Because the brunette's heart just melted.

(How can someone as perfect as her want to kiss Santana?)

(How would anyone not want to kiss Brittany back?)

**XV**

They fall asleep somewhere between playing 20 questions and giggling like idiots.

And, really, it's the best good night's sleep Santana's had in _years_.

**XVI**

The buzzing of a cell phone stirs the Latina from her slumber.

Okay, so she's not terribly hangover. That's good.

She tries to figure out the source of the noise—she's pretty sure it's her cell—, but, as she opens her eyes and takes in her surroundings, the first thing she notices is that long, creamy arms are firmly wrapped around her waist. She gasps and tenses. Brittany's front is pressed tightly against her back, soft breaths tickling the Latina's ear. Her bodies meld perfectly together. Ugh. She sighs. Santana can't let herself enjoy this, even though she would really like to.

This is awkward.

(She doesn't remember the last time she cuddled.)

When she tries to sneak out of the blonde's arms, Brittany tightens her embrace.

Well, fuck.

**XVII**

Santana remains frozen, holding her breath, for a whole, never-ending hour.

(Her phone stopped buzzing a while ago.)

She feels Brittany's breathing rhythm change and she begins to stir in her sleep. Santana closes her eyes tightly, hoping, _praying_, that the blonde will realize what she's doing and will finally free the brunette, but yeah, no—the dancer just mumbles something, the rise and fall of her chest evening again.

(Cute.)

**XVIII**

Santana has to pee. Badly.

She wiggles her butt, trying to slip away—one more time—from toned arms. She huffs, frustrated, when all her efforts are proved in vain. But, really, her bladder is going to fucking explode.

"Brittany?" She tries.

Nothing.

"Britt…?"

The blonde hums, still asleep.

"Britt-Britt." She whispers, tentatively stroking the limbs that securely encircle her hips.

"Santana?" Brittany croaks out. The Latina feels the blonde smiling.

Santana coughs awkwardly. "I need to pee."

The blonde giggles and it sends shivers to the brunette's spine. "Okay, silly." She mumbles. She makes no attempt to move, though.

"Could you, like…?" Santana wiggles her butt again.

"Oh." Brittany pulls back in a sudden movement. "Oh!" She repeats, alarmed. "Yeah—um—sorry."

Santana doesn't look at her because she's a hundred percent sure she's blushing like a fucking teenager on their first date. "It's okay."

She makes her way to the bathroom.

**XIX**

She doesn't go back to the bedroom—obviously. She just wants to go home and put a hell of a lot of distance between her and Brittany. That's not going to happen any time soon, though, so she decides she'll just make coffee for everybody and get the hell out of here silently.

But Puck is already awake. There goes her plan. Crap.

"Morning." He grumbles. Santana just nods, acknowledging him, and goes to the open plan kitchen. "My sheets were clean, you know?" Puck smirks.

"What?" She frowns.

"I mean, I'm your lesbro for life and a hard-core supporter of steamy lady sex, especially between two hot chicks, but dude, not cool." He's teasing, she knows. But no, this is not a good time.

"Shut up, Noah." Where's the coffee in this damn apartment?

"Whoa, Lopez. I was just kidding." He furrows his eyebrows. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Seriously, she can't fucking find the coffee.

"Right."

"Look, I don't want to talk about it." She turns around angrily, facing Noah. She's on edge and, honestly, he's not helping. "I'm going to make fucking coffee, you are going to fucking drink it because you are probably hangover as fuck, and I'm going to go shower at Judy's so I can meet my fucking mother and get the hell out of fucking Lima for good. Okay? _Okay_." She rants. She didn't know she could talk this fast. The brunette turns around once again, finally finding the damn coffee. Really, who keeps it in a cupboard like that one? Jesus fuck.

"_What_?"

"I said I don't want to talk about it, Puck!"

"You are going to see Maribel?" She freezes on the spot. Crap. Shit. She's so stupid.

The Latina's fucked up so bad. There's no point in lying now. She sighs. She faces Noah again. "Yes."

"Are you fucking crazy?" He yells. Of course this would happen. She crosses her arms and clenches her jaw.

The screaming wakes Sam up, and soon after him, Brittany appears in the living room. Their eyes are glued on Santana and Puck, who are just staring defiantly at each other. Sam looks startled, as if he doesn't know if he should intervene or not—he really shouldn't—, and Brittany just looks worried.

"I gotta go." The Latina says, coldly. She can't do this right now—she needs to keep her emotions at bay.

"_Of course_ you gotta go." Puck laughs bitterly. "Fucking wuss." He sneers. "Grow up, Santana!" He yells again at the retreating brunette, throwing his arms in the air. "Fuck."

Santana ignores him and just goes to his bedroom to grab her purse. She's _so_ close to experience a fucking epic outburst—she needs to go before she says something she'll most likely regret. Or before Snix punches Noah right in the face.

So she does, leaving a silent apartment behind.

(She doesn't even look at Brittany on her way out.)

* * *

><p><strong>AN 3: **I know, right?


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N 1: **Hi there. I'm not particularly happy with this chapter but it was kind of necessary. I don't know. Meh. Thank you for the reviews, follows and favorites!

**A/N 2: **The song used is _How soon is now?_, by The Smiths.

**Rating: **M for swearing and future sexy times.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Glee. Yet.

All mistakes are my own.

* * *

><p><strong>I<strong>

Santana Lopez is a lot of things.

She's angry at Noah because he's such a jerk; she's angry at Quinn because she didn't even know Maribel's intentions but she automatically assumed the worst; she's angry at Judy for loving her like her own daughter; she's angry at Brittany for trying to kiss her last night; she's even angry at Sam because of his freaking lips.

(And that goddamn song keeps replaying in her head, "_you shut your mouth, how can you say I go about things the wrong way…?_")

She's angry at the world.

But mostly, she's fucking angry at herself.

("_I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does…_")

**II**

Santana wanders Lima, trying to calm down. She's still so upset.

The Latina checks her phone and sees a missed call from Quinn—the one that has awoken her this morning—and three texts from Brittany.

_Are you okay? — Britt_

_Call me when you see this. — Britt_

_I'm not sure you'll call so I'll do it later. Be safe, San, please. — Britt_

She sighs, shoving the cell back into her purse.

(Apparently, Santana can't even last ten minutes being angry at the blonde.)

She ends up in a bar she has never been to. She knows it's probably not a good idea to order a vodka-soda at ten in the morning but oh, well.

("_There's a club, if you'd like to go. You could meet somebody who really loves you…_")

"What's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?" The bartender—an old man with _disgusting_ breath odor—asks, eyeing the Latina up and down. Gross.

"Listen up, Jim Ed Brown," Yes, Snix is about to make an appearance. "First of all, the 50s called, they want your pathetic attempt at a pick-up line back. Seriously, it's exhausting to even look at you." She clicks her tongue. "Now, you better go back to doing whatever your job is before I _ends_ you." She hisses. The man looks at her in bewilderment. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Y-Yes." The man stutters.

"Good."

Just then, her phone goes off. _Brittany_, of course.

Santana sighs. "Britt, what do you want?"

"_Where are you?_"

"I don't know." The Latina mumbles. "At some bar." She sips on her drink.

"_Are you okay?_" The concerned tone in the blonde's voice is sickening. Why does she have to care?

"I'm fine." Santana answers too quickly, and just when Brittany is about to protest, she interrupts. "Look, you weren't supposed to see what happened this morning." She starts. "Just… Forget about it. I'm fine, okay? You don't need to worry."

"_But I—_"

"B? I'll talk to you later."

And she hangs up.

She's such a bitch.

("_So you go and you stand on your own, and you leave on your own, and you go home, and you cry, and you want to die…_")

**III**

She goes back to Judy's. The older woman isn't there—Santana's never been so relieved.

She showers, thinking that maybe this damn feeling in the pit of her stomach—she thinks it's guilt—will disappear.

(No such luck.)

The Latina puts on clean clothes and turns on her computer—she really needs to reread Maribel's email, for some unknown reason.

(She's scared.)

_Santana,_

_It's me, Maribel. Your mother. _

_How have you been? The other day, someone was talking about Quinn Fabray, and then I found out that you work with her in New York. I always knew you were going to do great things, Santanita._

_I know it's been a long time, and I would understand if you ignored this, but I'd be more than willing to set aside our differences once and for all, mija. _

_I'm still in Lima, if you wanted to meet._

_Take care,_

_Maribel Lopez._

Santana rubs her temples and groans inwardly. She thinks she really wants to have her mother back in her life, if that's remotely possible, but all the _what ifs_ plague her mind, a constant reminder of what a bad idea this almost certainly is.

(The Latina can't for the life of her remember when everything became so difficult.)

In the best case scenario, Maribel is the woman she was when Santana was five, she's not an alcoholic and she's more than okay with her daughter's sexuality. Unlikely.

In the worst case scenario, Santana goes to her old house with her hopes up and Maribel doesn't give a fuck about making amends but she wants something from her daughter. Maybe money to buy some booze, since she most likely doesn't have a job…

(She guesses her mother still has a roof over her head thanks to the money she received after Abuela's passing—if there was even something left, anyway, since Abuela was the one who provided for her and Santana after the divorce.)

…or she also could need a liver and wants to kill Santana so she can have hers. That'd be _great_.

But then Santana thinks that she really wants to go back to New York and forget about Puck's bullshit and Brittany's blue eyes.

So she takes a deep breath and leaves the house.

**IV**

When Eduardo and Maribel Lopez divorced, Santana's father left them both—he never came to visit his daughter, and the next thing Santana knew, he was dead. Surprisingly, though, she was the sole heiress of his fortune, which came in handy when she was kicked out, really, but it was weird as fuck anyway.

Her family is just so fucked up, so that kind of explains everything, she thinks.

("_I am the son and heir of the nothing in particular…_")

As she nears the house, her heartbeat picks up. The blinds are still shut, but Santana isn't going back now. She's made up her mind. She doesn't have a choice.

This needs to be done.

**V**

"Santana?"

Maribel seems old. Like, really old. Her hair is graying, and she has lines and wrinkles across her forehead. Her tan skin has paled—it has a weird color, really—and she has bags under her dull eyes.

(This woman in front of Santana is a ghost of Maribel Lopez.)

"Yeah." The younger Latina says, her voice small. "Hi, mom."

And just like that, her mother is breaking down in front of her, engulfing her in a hug. Santana stiffens—she remains rigid, frozen, not returning the embrace.

This isn't what Santana was expecting at all.

("_I am the son and the heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar…_")

**VI**

Her old house hasn't really changed, but it's… darker, somehow. Even if the blinds were open, it'd still be darker. Santana can't quite put a finger on what's wrong.

"Do you want something to drink?" Santana sighs, expecting her mother to offer a glass of rum or whiskey. That would be awkward. "Water? Tea?" Oh.

"No, thanks." She says, unsure.

"Oh." Maribel nods. "Okay."

Her mother sits down on the leather armchair in the living room, and Santana plops down the couch with a soft thud. Silence fills the room—there's a weird tension that neither women break for long moments.

(Santana doesn't really know what she's supposed to say, so she waits.)

Finally, Maribel speaks. She was never one to make small talk. "You deserve an apology, mija." The younger Latina cringes. _Mija_. "I've come to understand that I wasn't a good mother to you, and for that I'm sorry." A pause. "Even before I… disowned you, I wasn't a very good example." Maribel looks up, meeting Santana's gaze. "I know that now."

Santana scoffs. She just can't help it. "About damn time."

"I'm dying, Santana."

Silence.

She gulps. "What?"

"I'm dying." Maribel repeats, nodding. "I was diagnosed a couple weeks ago. It's my liver. I…" The older woman breathes. "I've drunk myself to death." She chuckles bitterly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I didn't think you'd come, I—I didn't think I'd have the chance to apologize. But you are here and now… I'm almost happy I'll be gone." A lump forms in Santana's throat. "Gracias, mija."

This can't be happening.

"No." Santana shakes her head. "No!" She gets up from the couch, dangerously approaching Maribel, who looks startled at the outburst. "You don't get to do this to me!" She yells, now fully crying. "I've been waiting eight years for this, for you to acknowledge me. _Eight years_! And now what? That's it? You fucking _die_." She hisses. "Oh my God."

"I'm sorry, Santana." Maribel ventures, her breath unsteady, as she tries to touch her daughter's wrist. Santana flinches. "I'm so sorry."

"You just can't stop letting me down, can you?" Santana feels so stupid. "I can't believe this." She chuckles, her cheeks wet from the tears that keep rolling down her face. "How much time do you have?"

("_When you say it's gonna happen now, well, when exactly do you mean…?_")

"A month. Maybe two."

("_See, I've already waited too long and all my hope is gone…_")

**VII**

Santana leaves. She just runs, runs, runs.

(She's still crying when she reaches the Pierce's household.)

Luckily, it's Brittany who answers the doorbell.

"San?" Blue eyes scan her face. Santana hates that she's the cause of the blonde's worry. Nobody should care about her. She's not even sure about why she's here. "Santana, what's wrong?" The Latina just shakes her head, unable to stop crying.

Brittany just hugs her tighter than ever and leads her to her room, without further question.

Santana lets Brittany hold her for what seems like hours—she's lost track of time since she left Maribel's. The blonde rocks her back and forth, hushing and whispering soothing words, like a mantra that lulls the Latina to sleep.

("_...I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does…_")

**VIII**

Santana wakes up an hour later with red, puffy eyes. The dancer is still holding her tightly, both of them lying down, legs tangled, on her bed.

"Santana." Brittany murmurs, stroking tan arms.

"Hi." Her voice is hoarse and makes the blonde giggle cutely. Santana smiles, not having the strength to be embarrassed, and closes her eyes again, sighing.

"Hey." The taller girl grins as she tucks Santana's head under her chin. "Are you okay?"

Santana clears her throat and breathes steadily on the crook of the blonde's neck. "Not really, no."

"Do you want to talk about it?" She whispers tentatively, as if she's going to make the Latina snap any moment. Santana hates that she's the reason Brittany has to permanently walk on eggshells.

The lawyer is about to say no—she really is. But then she thinks that it'd be unfair to Brittany if she kept her in the dark this time, when she's showed up at her house being a sobbing mess. The least she deserves is an explanation.

(Maybe if Brittany understands why Santana is this _broken_, she'd leave her alone and the Latina won't hurt her, like she always does.)

"It's my mom." She starts. "She's dying."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not." She frowns. "Well, I mean, I am. I think." She shakes her head. "My mom kicked me out when I was seventeen, after I told her I was gay." Brittany pulls back a little to look into brown orbs, her brows furrowed. Santana smiles reassuringly. "My dad died before that, so he was not in the picture—obviously." She rolls her eyes at herself. "So, anyway, my friend, Quinn, and her mom took me in until we finished our senior year in high school, and then Quinn and I moved to New York. We went to college, and, well, you know the rest." Brittany nods encouragingly. "I didn't hear from my mom for eight years and I thought I was okay, but…" She gulps, her voice slightly cracking. "A few days ago, she emailed me. She wanted to meet to make things better between us—so that's why I'm here." The blonde smiles. "Quinn was mad at first but she got over it, eventually. Puck—he's different, I think. He has always protected me like a brother. He—he was there when I had no family, like Quinn, but he… I don't know, we were popular, the three of us, but when our high school found out I was a lesbian, some people were royal assholes and, well, let's just say that Noah was always there to throw them in the dumpsters." She laughs at the memory, eliciting a giggle from Brittany.

"He's great." The blonde says.

"Yeah, he really is." Santana assures. "But he doesn't get why I would want to have a relationship with my mother." She clears her throat. "I get it, you know? She was a major bitch. But she's my mom, the only one I have." She sighs. Brittany tightens her embrace. "Anyway, I went to see her this morning and she just dropped the D-bomb. She just said 'I'm dying, mija' and apologized and I guess she expected me not to give a flying fuck or something but I was upset, like, really, _really_ upset after what happened with Puck and then... And then this, you know?" She doesn't realize she's started crying until the blonde thumbs her tears and caresses her jaw. "I just don't know what I'm supposed to do, B."

"Oh, honey." Brittany coos. "I'm so sorry that happened to you." The dancer says, tickling softly the back of Santana's neck. "Thanks for telling me." And then she kisses a tan forehead. "It'll be alright."

("_You could meet somebody who really loves you…_")

**IX**

They cuddle a long time, until Santana's stomach grumbles embarrassingly loud, making her blush furiously—seriously, why is it that the Latina had never in her life _blushed_ and now she doesn't seem to know how to stop?

(She didn't cuddle, either. Oh, well.)

Brittany laughs and pulls back, getting up from the bed. "Come on." She says, tugging the brunette's hand. "Let's get you something to eat."

The Pierce's household is homey and cozy—nothing really matches, but it all harmonizes as a whole. Santana really likes it here.

"Where's Bree?"

"She's with my mom at the park." Brittany says, rummaging around in the kitchen. "She got here from Florida last night." Santana hums. "Bree really likes you, you know?" The blonde whirls around, facing the Latina with a sunny smile.

"She does?" She asks skeptically. The little girl would be the first kid that likes Santana. Then again, she would be the first nine year old that the Latina genuinely likes.

Brittany furrows her brows at the hesitancy. "Yeah. She couldn't stop talking about how cool you are." She grins.

"It's a gift." She shrugs teasingly, earning a playful eye-roll form the dancer.

"So, Ms. Lopez," Brittany starts. "Would you rather cup noodles or…" She drawls, "cup noodles?" She smiles bashfully. "I really don't want to burn down the kitchen."

**X**

They are on the couch watching TV when the front door opens.

(Shit.)

"Honey?" A female voice shouts.

"In the living room, mom!" Brittany chirps.

"Hey." A blonde woman pokes her head around the door. Brittany has the same warm smile and electric eyes as Bonnie Pierce. "Oh, I didn't know you had a guest." She eyes Santana curiously, her smile intact.

"This is Santana, mom." Brittany's cheeks pink a little, and Santana smirks.

"Hi, Ms. Pierce." The Latina sticks her hand out, expecting the woman to stretch it—she's professional as hell even when she doesn't need to be—but the woman surprises her when she opens her arms and closes the distance between them, effectively hugging Santana.

(They are all huggers, it seems.)

"So, this is the infamous Santana." The brunette blushes, ducking her head. "It's nice to meet you. Call me Bonnie."

Santana doesn't have the time to nod before a small head pops up in the living room. "Santana is here?" Bree's face lights up when she spots the Latina. "San!" She yelps, hugging the lawyer's thighs. Yep, totally huggers.

"Hey, kid." Santana greets warmly, kneeling down so she can be the same height as the little girl. The action feels so natural that the Latina doesn't even register what she's doing. "How are you?"

"Great! Mom let me go to the park and we fed the ducks and we had lots of fun!" Bree explains animatedly. "You should come with, some time." Santana looks up at Bonnie, searching for approval. The woman nods.

"Sure, B. Whenever you want." She grins when Bree exclaims a 'yay!' and stands up, just in time to catch a glimpse of the fond smile Brittany is sporting.

"Are you staying for lunch, Santana?" Bonnie asks.

"Oh, no. I kind of just ate." She scratches the back of her neck shyly. "I should go home, anyway. But thank you."

"Of course, honey. You're always welcome here." The older woman pats her shoulder affectionately and turns to Brittany. "You ate, too, sweetie?"

"Yeah." She blushes. "Sorry, mom."

"It's okay." Bonnie waves her off. "I'm going to fix something for me and Bree, then."

"Can we have mac n' cheese, mommy?" Bree pipes in and Bonnie nods, making the little girl twirl around happily and go straight to the kitchen.

"No running, Bree!" Bonnie scolds, disappearing behind her younger daughter.

Santana watches Brittany, who's smiling at them, mesmerized. Then, she realizes she's being weird and coughs awkwardly, hoping that the blonde hasn't seen her. "Well, I should go."

"Are you sure? You could stay."

"Yeah. Judy's probably home, wondering where I am." She shrugs. Santana doesn't really want to go yet, but she feels like she's intruding. Enough introductions for the day.

"Okay." Brittany looks disappointed, but Santana shrugs it off. She walks her to the entrance. "So…"

"So." Santana faces the blonde, grinning.

"I'm really glad you came." The dancer blushes. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, don't worry." Santana nods. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Silence. "Call me later, okay?"

The Latina smiles. "Okay, Britt."

And they hug.

(It always feels so good.)

**XI**

Judy's still not home when she gets there, so she goes to the bedroom so she can think about what's happened today, because after the whirlwind of emotions that she's experienced, she's not sure about what she should do next.

The truth is, she wants to go back to her life in the city so bad. Then again, is she really going to forget about Maribel that easily? Her mother's dying. She doesn't know how to feel, honestly, but she doesn't think she's that cold-hearted, especially when the older Latina regrets what she did.

Just then, she hears Judy arriving home. Judy, who still doesn't know anything about the situation. Santana needs to fix that.

"Judy, hey."

"Oh, Santana. I didn't know you were home." The woman smiles at her. "What's wrong?" Wow, okay, what's with the psychic powers?

"I have to tell you something, but I kinda need you to sit down."

"Okay…" Judy drawls out, unsure. "What happened?"

Santana cuts right to the chase, there's no way she's postponing the inevitable. "I visited Maribel." She waits for a reaction, but it never comes, so she speaks again. "She contacted me the other day and that's basically why I'm here." She looks down, ashamed.

"And...?" Judy furrows her brows.

"She has some sort of liver disease or something." Santana says. "She's going to, um, she's going to die." She stutters a little. "She apologized, and… Well, that's it, because my inner mega-bitch showed up and I stormed off." Santana shrugs.

And then…

"Santana, you could've told me sooner." Judy tells her.

"I—" Santana's voice cracks. "I know. I was just being an idiot." She shakes her head and sniffles. "I thought you'd be mad."

"Honey, you know I would never be mad because of that. I understand." Santana nods, clinging to the older woman for dear life. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I was going to go back to New York as soon as I talked to Maribel, but now…"

"You should stay, Santana." Judy says. "You'll regret it if you don't."

"Yeah."

**XII**

"Britt? Were you sleeping?"

"_No._" A yawn and then a sleepy giggle. "_Okay, I kinda was. But it's fine, really._"

"Sorry."

"_Don't worry, San. How are you?_"

"Good." Santana says. "I talked to Judy and she thinks I should stay in Lima for a while, until my mom… You know." She doesn't want to finish the sentence.

Brittany hums. "_Yeah. You could talk to Puck, too. I don't think he's still mad._" A pause. "_And you'll be here to come feed the ducks with me and my sister._" Is it possible to hear when someone is smiling? Because the Latina thinks she can hear the blonde doing just that.

"Yeah." She breathes. "I'd really like that."

"_I really like you._"

Santana sighs, smiling bashfully. "I like you, too, Britt." Really, there's no way she can deny it.

"_Obviously._"

"Shut up." She laughs. She hears another yawn. "B, come on, you should go to sleep."

"_Yeah, okay._" Some shuffling. "_Good night, San. Talk to you tomorrow._"

"Night."

**XIII**

Santana falls into a dreamless sleep immediately after that, a velvety voice soothing her.

("_I am human and I need to be loved..._")


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N 1: ***awkwardly waves* Hiiiiiii there. Okay, I admit it, I was being a lazy ass and this chapter was hard as hell to write, even though there's a lot of dialogue going on. Plus, college started again and, well, panic. Anyway... It's published now. Ta-da! Enjoy.

**A/N 2: **Did you watch 6x01 and 6x02 yet? At least 1,400 people were killed and 5,222 were injured after that eskimo kiss. I'm one of the dead ones. I'm writing this from the afterlife.

**Rating: **M for swearing and future sexy times.

**Disclaimer: **Glee's not mine. If only I could own Santana Lopez, though.

All mistakes are my own.

* * *

><p><strong>I<strong>

Santana Lopez is a lot of things.

She's not very fond, as you may already know, of waking up early. And it's 6 AM, and her phone is buzzing somewhere in the pitch-black room.

The Latina really doesn't want to pick up but she knows she won't be able to fall asleep again, anyway. Plus, her head is pounding like a bitch. And her right shoulder is sore from sleeping in an awkward as fuck position.

She seriously hates her body sometimes.

(Thank God she's hot, at least.)

Grunting, Santana gets up and searches for her cell, which is still in her purse, apparently. The bright screen blinds her for a moment and she hisses a 'fuck'. It's too damn early for this shit.

It's Quinn.

"You better have a good reason to call at fucking 6 in the morning on a Saturday, Fabitch." She greets, all sunshine and rainbows. Her voice is hoarse as hell, but she can't find it in her to feel embarrassed.

"_Oh, I miss you, too, bestie._" Quinn laughs airily. Santana rolls her eyes. "_I've been calling you since yesterday. One would think that your addicted-to-Angry-Birds ass would pick up—_"

She huffs. "Still, couldn't you just wait a couple of hours for this crap? What do you want, anyway?"

"_You know, when I suggested you took a break in Lima, I meant it. Seems like you are still pissed off at the world 24/7 for some unknown reason, though._"

"Fabray, I swear to God—"

"_Okay, okay. Jesus._" Quinn clicks her tongue. "_Just thought you would appreciate a heads up about the case._"

"Well?" She asks impatiently. Her best friend is starting to push her buttons, seriously. She's never met a more difficult woman. Not even her ex-girlfriend knew how to annoy Santana like this. Ugh.

"_Okay, sit down._" Santana complies reluctantly, lying down on the bed again. "_What do you want first, bad news or good news?_"

"Bad." She says begrudgingly.

"_The interns have tracked down the jurors and so far we think that Jones, Berry, Abrams, Pillsbury and Beiste will side in Luce's favor, but—_"

"Fuck." The Latina half-yells. "That's not enough, Quinn! Five out of twelve? Really? Fucking assholes."

"_Santana, calm down._" She breathes deeply and the blonde sighs. "_Look, the good news is that we may still have a shot, okay? Sylvester, Smythe, Wilde and St. James are lost causes and we'll have to figure something out, but Schuester and Karofsky may side in her favor, too. Maybe even Hudson._"

"Are you serious right now?" The silence on the other side of the line is enough of an answer. "If we have to rely on those three, we might as well tell Luce to go fuck herself!"

"_Santana, could you have a little faith for once? I'm doing my best here. The trial's in three weeks. Just calm down, seriously._" The Latina shakes her head. She feels awful and helpless and she's about to cry. It's pathetic. "_What's wrong, anyway? You're grumpier than usual._"

(She hates that Quinn knows her this well.)

The brunette sighs. "I went to see Maribel. It wasn't pretty."

"_What did she do?_" Here we go.

"She didn't do anything, _Quinn_." Seriously, one would think that Quinn or Puck were the ones who were kicked out of their homes, for fuck's sake. "I just—I'm going to need a few more weeks here to figure things out, okay?"

"_Okay._"Quinn agrees. "_But what happened?_"

And Santana explains everything for the hundredth time in less than 24 hours. It's genuinely exhausting, honestly. She retells the fight with Puck, the helplessness, how Maribel apparently only wanted to meet because she doesn't want to die alone, "—and then I stormed the fuck out of there, and suddenly I was in front of Brittany's house, and—"

"_Wait, Brittany? As in Angel face Brittany? And Maribel is sick? What the fuck? Are you okay?_" Too many questions, God.

"Yeah, I mean, I'm upset, but—wait, how do you know I call her Angel face?" She blushes. Pretty badly, she might add.

"_You may have talked about her in your sleep that night you were drunk and weeping over how you didn't deserve her forgiveness after you were an ass to her._"

"Oh my God." Santana brings her hand to her face. As if doing that would remove the smug expression Quinn is surely sporting right now. Fuck. "And you didn't think it would be a good idea to mention that until now?"

"_I didn't want to embarrass you. Plus, it was cute._" The Latina groans. She hates Quinn. She really, really hates her. "_Come on, Santana. I'm glad you are this smitten._"

"What?!" She yelps. No, no, no, they're not talking about this. "I'm not smitten, Fabray." Quinn laughs. "I'm not!" Nope, her best friend can't stop laughing. "Shut up. Brittany and I are friends, period."

"_Right, cool story, bro._" She didn't just say that. She didn't. "_Anyway, what happened when you showed up at her door?_"

Santana rolls her eyes. "She hugged me, I told her what happened with my mom and, well, basically, I vented for, like, an hour straight." She pauses. "Oh my God. She probably thought I'm an attention whore. Like, I was an ass to her all day and then—"

"_Look, don't freak out on me right now, S, it's too early._" Quinn interrupts. Santana is about to reply with a snarky remark about how it's not her who called this early in the fucking morning when her best friend continues, "_I'm sure the girl cares about you and that's why she listened to your sob story. Okay, moving on._"

The Latina shrugs. Fabray has a point, she guesses. "And then I fell asleep." ..._on her_. Santana fell asleep _on_ Brittany. And then they cuddled. But Quinn doesn't need to know that. So… "I woke up, we ate lunch and that's it." ..._and she met Bonnie Pierce_. _And apparently Brittany's sister and Santana are now best friends or some shit_. But, you know, _whatever_.

"_So, you like her._"

"Wh—what?" The Latina panics. How surprising, right? Right.

"_You like her._" The blonde repeats. "_Okay, before you deny it, just listen to me._" And Santana does, because she's freaking out internally. Are they taking a trip to the Chamber of Secrets, also known as Bottled-up Emotions that Shall Never Resurface? It seems like it. Oh, no. She's not even drunk. "_You never talk about Maribel or your family, with, like, anybody. Even Emily didn't know about all that crap, so Brittany must be special._" That's true, but— "_I'm not saying you're in love with her,_" Santana can practically hear the silent 'yet' in Quinn's words, "_But you obviously care about her and she cares about you, so don't fuck it up._" The Latina rolls her eyes. "_And I want to meet her, someday._"

"I—"

"_Oh, I gotta go. Talk to you later, love ya!_"

_Great_.

**II**

Obviously, she can't go back to sleep. Fucking Quinn and her mind games. Or whatever that was.

Like, don't get her wrong: Santana likes Brittany. She really, really, really likes her. She liked her even when the blonde was just a "product of her imagination"—when she met Brittany on that dating site, she thought she was idealizing her, somehow, because that's what people do on the Internet. They show a certain part of themselves, the nicest one, and they hide their flaws. It's normal, and it's human; if you want someone out there to like you, you need to be the best version of yourself.

Anyway, as she was saying, she thought she was idealizing Brittany—gorgeous, funny, quirky and charming Brittany—and romanticizing the whole thing. Santana thought that if they ever met, she would be deeply disappointed. Later on, the Latina would discover that, with the dancer, it was the complete opposite. She now knows that Brittany is not only beautiful and witty, but she's also caring and sweet and all that's good in the world.

And that scares the crap out of her.

Because, really, what does she have to offer? She's stubborn, bitchy, abrasive, a workaholic and, so far, she hasn't showed any of her virtues—if she even has one of those—to Brittany.

Also, she's 530 miles away from her.

The blonde could do so much better than Santana, and it's painfully obvious.

**III**

Santana stares at the ceiling for hours. By the noise she hears downstairs, she knows Judy's already got up and made breakfast, but the Latina hasn't left the bedroom.

(Quinn shouldn't have opened the Chamber of Secrets.)

**IV**

At 11 AM, somebody rings the bell and Judy greets the visitor. The voices are muffled and Santana doesn't pay attention to them, thinking that the older woman was expecting a guest.

But then, there's a knock on her bedroom's door. And it can't be Judy, because she doesn't knock. That's just something she's incapable of.

(You get used to it, eventually.)

Santana frowns. "Come in." It sounds more like a question, because someone is here to see _her _and it's weird. And, well, she's wearing her SpongeBob onesie.

And then Puck pokes his head around the door. "Hey." He makes his way to the bed and plops down the edge of it, scratching the back of his neck.

"Um, hi."

It's one of those moments when someone mutters 'awkward' to make the situation even more awkward than it already is.

"This is awkward." Noah sighs, now fidgeting with his hands. Yes, now sure as hell is. "I came to apologize." Santana looks at him intently, completely caught off guard. "I was unfair to you. I said things you don't deserve, and, well, I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Puck." Because, really, what can she say? He was an asshole, yes, but that's how he shows he cares. The Latina knows that. She can't blame him, anyway—Noah just wants to protect her, but Santana needs to make him understand that she's not that seventeen year old scared girl anymore.

Like, yeah, she knew she'd probably get hurt—and she's really upset about the dramatic turn of events—, but she needed to try. Maribel obviously had other plans—there's no time, really, to rebuild a decent relationship with her mother, and there are wounds that won't heal any time soon, but now at least she can have closure. She has her mother's apology, which is more than she ever imagined getting from her; at least she doesn't feel like everything that transpired between them was her fault anymore.

And she's going to stay in Lima for Maribel's funeral or whatever.

Santana just has to live with this. Life's a bitch. She'll get over it.

So, yeah—it's fine.

"It's not fine, San." Or not. "You are one of the bravest people I know, I need you to believe that." He then meets her eyes for the first time. "You are like a sister to me and I just wanted to protect you, but…" He takes a deep breath. "I get it. You have the right to want a mother and I shouldn't have acted like an ass. I guess it didn't help the way I found out about it." Santana rolls her eyes playfully. Yeah, not one of her proudest moments. "But I want you to know that from now on I've got your back, okay?"

"Puck, really, it's okay. You were right, anyway. Well, sort of." She shrugs nonchalantly.

"What?" He brings his hand to Santana's ankle. "You already went to see her?" She nods. "What happened?"

"Eh," She starts. "Long story short, she's dying. I guess she didn't want to die alone, that's just sad." She clears her throat, mustering up all the indifference she can possibly conjure. "But it's all good, she said she's sorry, and I guess I'll be staying for a while now. Maybe I'll try to talk to her again, I don't really know."

Puck frowns. He's probably insulting Maribel mentally while he tries to be polite and stand by his apology. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." She breathes. "I wasn't expecting it, but, you know, whatever. It's not like I'm going to lose her for the first time or something." She chuckles bitterly.

Noah senses that it's probably better to not push it and just nods, suddenly smirking and changing the subject dramatically, "Anyway, Lopez, what's with the onesie?"

**V**

They go to the Lima Bean to grab a coffee and talk.

It's almost like eight years ago, which is kind of weird, because it just shows that they haven't really grown up at all. Like, they still tease and make fun of each other constantly; they talk and laugh too loud, earning a few glares from the other people in the café; and they still do that thing in which Santana unashamedly flirts with the cashier, Puck pretends he's her jealous boyfriend and makes a scene, successfully embarrassing the poor boy, who begs them not to call his manager and then proceeds to hand them their orders for free.

(Quinn always criticized their methods.)

"So, how's Quinn?" Puck asks, sipping his latte.

"She's great." Santana grins. "She's handling all my cases in the meantime. I don't know how she hasn't gone nuts yet."

He barks a laugh. "Bah, you know that woman; she's like a freaking machine. She'll end up being the President or some shit."

Santana nods. That's probably something that'll happen, really. "Totally."

Her phone goes off in her purse. And it's Brittany.

She looks back at Puck and then at the screen again.

Oh, well.

"Hey, B. What's up?" Puck eyes Santana carefully and then smirks. Fantastic.

"_Hi, San._" The blonde greets adorably. Santana smiles just because. And Puck's still smirking at her like a fool. "_I was wondering if you wanted to take Lord Tubbington for a walk with me?_"

She scrunches her nose. What?

Oh, wait. Brittany's cat.

(So when Santana upset her and the blonde told her that she was taking her cat for a walk, she wasn't lying?)

(Should she feel better or worse? Because it's weird as hell, honestly.)

(But it's also cute.)

Apparently, she's lost in her thoughts longer than intended, because Brittany suddenly starts rambling. "_I mean, you probably think it's silly, but he really needs to lose weight and Bree's with my mom grocery shopping and I just thought—_"

"Britt!" Santana giggles. "I'd love to go."

She thinks she hears an 'oh, thank God', but has no time to process it because the blonde laughs and coughs awkwardly. "_Okay. I'll meet you at the park?_"

"Sure. Should I get going?

"_Yeah._" Brittany says. "_Unless you've got something to do, I mean, it's totally okay if you want to—_"

Santana can picture the blonde blushing and it makes her smile so big. "I'll see you there, B."

"_Bye._" The dancer replies shyly.

She hangs up, still smiling like an idiot. The things Brittany does to her, man. Obviously, Puck has to ruin the moment.

"Holy shit, you've got it so bad, Lopez." He laughs.

"Shut up, jerk." The Latina blushes. "I have to go." She grabs her still warm coffee and kisses Puck on the cheek. "See you."

"Bye-bye, lovebird." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Gross.

(Not the L word, please.)

**VI**

Santana doesn't spot Brittany right away once she gets to the park.

She doesn't spot her because the first thing she sees is a cat. A cat on a pink, sparkly leash. But, like, not a normal cat—_it _looks like a fucking obese tiger. It's probably bigger than Brittany's sister, seriously.

(The dancer wasn't lying, either, when she said _it _needed to lose weight.)

The Latina's eyes are wide in surprise when Brittany turns around and sees her, a bright smile plastered on her beautiful, beautiful face that rapidly turns into a frown as soon as she notices the brunette's expression.

"San? Are you okay?" She asks, worried.

"Yeah, it's just..." She clears her throat, still awestruck. "_This_ is Lord Tubbington?"

"Isn't he cute?" Brittany grins. "Say hi, Tubbs!"

But the cat just glares at the Latina.

(Nope, they're not going to be friends.)

The blonde furrows her eyebrows, clearly disappointed with the interaction.

"Anyway..." Santana trails off. "How are you?"

"Oh!" Brittany exclaims and hugs the brunette, catching her by surprise. "I'm great." She pulls back and blushes. "Sorry, that was weird." She giggles endearingly, her ears and cheeks still red.

The Latina laughs, not even slightly bothered by the hug.

(She kinda liked it.)

"It's fine, B." She assures. "So, where to?"

**VII**

Brittany doesn't really know where she's going.

Literally.

(Santana thinks that they're near a crack house.)

"I got bored of walking the same route every day, so Tubbs and I just kinda wander Lima now." Brittany shrugs like it's not a big deal. Thank God the Latina knows how to fight. More or less. Okay, she just sort of knows how to intimidate the enemy. But it works, so shut up.

(That junkie in the corner surely looks like he could use a shower. And rehab.)

(But she's not scared. _At all_.)

"I really think we should go back, though, Britt. I don't even know where we are." The brunette pleads nervously. The dancer looks at her and grins widely.

"Yeah, okay." Brittany nods.

(Lord Tubbington meows. If _it _could speak, he'd be calling Santana a pussy for sure. That damn cat.)

**VIII**

They finally get back to the park. It's been a struggle, really—Brittany's sense of direction is nonexistent, and Santana was actually glaring at Tubbs most of the time, so they've got lost twice.

No biggie, though, the company's totally worth it.

The dancer's eyes light up. "Do you want ice cream?"

"Britt, we haven't even eaten lunch yet." Santana states, as if it's going to be a valid argument for the blonde. She should know better by now, really.

"So?" Brittany looks at her like she's silly. "I want ice cream." She whines. "Please?" Brittany pouts.

The Latina is so whipped already. It's super sad. "Oh my God, stop that." Santana pokes Brittany's jutted bottom lip. "Okay, okay!" The blonde grins mischievously.

(Her plan has worked yet again.)

The lawyer rolls her eyes but smiles nonetheless. As if she could ever resist the puppy eyes _and_ the pout. Seriously.

"Awesome." Brittany does a cute victory dance and Santana swears that she just died and went to Heaven. "Let's get Tubbs home first."

**IX**

"How are you, San?" The dancer asks while she licks her ice cream.

(Wanky.)

(This is seriously torture.)

(Her own ice cream has almost melted because she's blatantly staring at Brittany's mouth.)

"Oh, um," She stutters, too fascinated by the blonde's artful tongue. Oh, the things that tongue could—_no_. "I'm good. I'm great. Awesome." Smooth, Santana.

"Really?" Brittany smiles. "I got really worried about you yesterday." She purses her lips. "I'm glad you're okay." She whispers.

Santana smiles softly and holds the dancer's hand. "Thank you, B." Brittany shrugs and ducks her head, blushing. "No, really, what you did meant a lot."

"I didn't do anything."

"No, look," Santana shakes her head. "Yesterday was a crappy day and I really needed someone to be there for me." She intertwines their fingers and looks at their hands. "Knowing that I can count on you means a lot, okay? She glances back up at blue orbs and tilts her head, a tentative smile playing at her lips.

Brittany nods. "Okay." She whispers. And then her eyes fall to Santana's mouth.

(Shit.)

There's that weird tension in the air once again.

And when Brittany starts to lean in…

…Santana clears her throat awkwardly and, "Are you hungry?" The dancer stops and looks at the Latina curiously. "I'll buy you lunch, come on."

(They are still holding hands on her way to BreadstiX.)

**X**

"—I'm totally serious! They are legally forbidden to stop bringing you breadsticks, B. That inspired me to become a lawyer, I'm telling ya." Brittany is laughing so much she's crying. And, seriously, Santana is _so_ winning right now. "One time, I brought a wheelbarrow and when the manager tried to stop me from filling it up with breadsticks, I called the corporate office and got her fired. Best moment of my life, hands down." She finishes with a mouthful of heavenly breadsticks, like a freaking chipmunk.

No fucks given.

(What? This restaurant is probably the best part of Lima.)

"I can't believe you!" Brittany shoves the Latina's arm playfully.

"Hey, don't judge me. I loves me some breadsticks."

The dancer giggles and rolls her eyes. "Dork."

Santana winks at her and the blonde blushes.

**XI**

"So…" Brittany trails off. They're in front of the Pierce's household now, because Bonnie and Bree have already got home and the dancer wants to spend time with her family. "I'm really glad you came."

"Me, too, Britts."

"I have a question, though." The blonde fidgets with her hands and takes a deep breath. "Was it a date?"

Oh. "What?"

"BreadstiX… Was it a date? Because I really like you and you said you like me, too. But then when I try to kiss you, you freak out and… I don't know. I just, I've had an awesome time with you—"

"Britt-Britt, stop." Santana reaches out for a pale pinky. "Do you want it to be a date?"

The dancer looks startled at the question. She probably was expecting a blatant 'no'. "Y—yeah. Yeah, I do." She ducks her head and blushes.

(She's so cute.)

Santana smiles and puts two fingers under Brittany's chin, coaxing her to look up again. "It was a date, then."

"Really?" The dancer's eyes light up like a Christmas tree. And it's Santana who's causing that. It's kind of fucking perfect, if she's being honest.

"Really, really." She holds Brittany's hand entirely and kisses the back of it. "Now, get that cute little butt of yours into your house. I think I see Bree peeking through the curtains."

The dancer looks at her house's front window and sees the curtain moving. "She's an awful spy." She giggles. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Sure, B. Have fun with the fam."

And they hug.

(And vanilla, and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, and happiness.)

And, yes, it was a date.

* * *

><p><strong>AN 3: **Phew. There you go. Also, I love me some Tubbtana.

**A/N 4: **Oh, I almost forgot. Thank you for the super amazing reviews (over 100 already!), follows and favorites! See you next chapter, my friends.


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